


there's magic in this town

by midwestwind



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Magic, Minor Character Death, POV Alternating, Practical Magic AU, Rated for Violence and Swearing, Romance, Sister-Sister Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-06 16:25:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6761401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midwestwind/pseuds/midwestwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma Swan doesn't have time for mysterious strangers, between moving back to her hated childhood town, caring for her son, and reconnecting with her sister.</p><p>Not to mention the dead guy in her backyard.</p><p>(a practical magic au.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> I was discussing this au casually with Amber (letterfromathief) and Sandy (bluestoplights) and then somehow it turned into a 27k three-part fic. Ah well, any excuse to explore the relationship between Emma and Snow! Hope you enjoy this!

Emma Swan can remember with near perfect clarity the day she and her sister had gone to live with their Aunt Ingrid.

 

It had been too bright outside, blindingly sunny, as they’d watched a town full of people that hated them lower their mother’s body into the ground, right beside the fresh grave of their father. Mary Margaret had clung tightly to Emma’s hand and wept quietly, a catharsis Emma refused to allow herself.

 

Ingrid had invited them inside with promises of late bedtimes and ice cream at all hours. Their aunt Helga had visited often, her own daughters in tow. The adjustment hadn’t been easy, but the Swan sisters couldn’t stop themselves from taking to the only family they had left. Still, Emma and Mary Margaret had held to each other stronger than anyone else.

 

“The bond of sisters is stronger than any other in our family,” Helga had whispered to them once, like a secret. Mary Margaret, Emma, Elsa, and Anna sitting in a neat little row across the table from Helga and Ingrid. “We protect each other.”

 

For years, Emma and Mary Margaret watched all manner of townspeople appear on Ingrid’s step at all hours, begging for help in matters of the heart. Mary Margaret had stared in wonder at the lengths people were willing to go for love, whilst Emma hid her face in her sister’s long, dark locks and ignored the visitors.

 

“Daddy died because of the curse, didn’t he?” Mary Margaret had asked one day, months and months after moving into the impossibly tall and impossibly old house. Emma had frowned at her while Ingrid’s eyes had gone wide. Mary Margaret shifted in her seat, unsure of herself now that the question was out in the open. “Anna told me that’s how it works. The women in our family are cursed to lose any man they love.”

 

“Perhaps, my darling,” Ingrid had sighed. Emma focused on trying to light the candle in front of her, squeezing her eyes shut tight and willing the wick to set itself ablaze. “Magic can be a fickle thing and love, love can be the most fickle magic of all. Your mother believed she heard the deathwatch beetle ticking on the day your father died.”

 

The candle had flickered to life, the light of it causing spots to appear on the inside of Emma’s closed eyelids. When she’d opened them, Ingrid had smiled in pride while Mary Margaret gasped in delight.

 

“Mom died of a broken heart,” Emma had asked quietly, blowing lightly on the flame to put it out once more. “Didn’t she?”

 

Ingrid had nodded sadly, grief for the loss of her own sister flashing through her usually calm and unreadable features, before saying, “Remember this, though, even the strongest of curses only have power when you believe they do.”

 

Emma had found her sister later that evening, wooden bowl cradled in her arms as she moved gracefully through the garden. Mary Margaret had always moved like she was made for a ballroom, grace and fluidity in her strides. Emma had envied that aspect of her sister when she stumbled up stairs and scraped her knees on the harsh pavement.

 

“What are you doing?” Emma had asked as she followed her sister around, careful not to crush any growing plants under her boots. Mary Margaret carefully plucked petals from the brightly colored flowers flourishing around them. She punctuated the drop of each petal in the bowl with a character trait. So far, Emma had heard “kind eyes”, “belief in justice”, and “a nice voice”.

 

“I’m conjuring a true love spell,” Mary Margaret had answered easily, plucking a soft pink petal from one of the roses. Dropping it in the bowl, she added, “The gentleness of a storybook knight.”

 

“Why?” Emma had frowned. “Don’t you believe in the curse?”

 

“Of course, I believe in the curse,” Mary Margaret had sighed, pivoting on her toe to find the snowdrops. Out of season, Ingrid had learned they were Mary Margaret’s favorite flower and always found a way to keep them growing throughout the year.

 

“So, why would you want to conjure up a man only to doom him to die?” Emma had inquired slowly as Mary Margaret plucked one of the snowdrops from where it hung from its stem. She paused before dropping it in the bowl to look up at Emma.

 

“Because true love can break any curse,” she had insisted, ignoring Emma’s dubious eyebrow raise to drop the flower into the bowl. “His favorite weather will be snow.”

 

Emma had sighed and watched as Mary Margaret had recited the rest of the incantation, the flowers catching in a magic wind as they began to swirl around the bowl. Mary Margaret had held the bowl out from herself and the wind increased, carrying the mixture of flower petals off on the wind, drifting further and further out of view.

 

“Whatever you say, sis,” Emma commented, rolling her eyes. Mary Margaret stuck out her tongue, traipsing back past Emma and out of the garden. Emma heard the screen door at the back of the house slap shut against the old wooden door frame. At nine-years-old, Emma had found her sister to be the most hopeful and, consequently, naive person she knew. Sighing, she glanced back towards the sky, watching the petals drift further and further until they disappeared from view completely.

 

-/-

 

Mary Margaret can remember to the near minute detail the day her sister had left Storybrooke.

 

The wind from the open patio doors had whipped her dark hair around her face while she watched as Emma shoved the few items she felt an attachment to into a bag. Her sister had always been a light traveler, able to exist on few material things. Neal, whose name Mary Margaret hadn’t learned until that night, had milled outside of the house, examining the garden while Emma packed. His impractically bright yellow car had casted it’s own glow in the twilight.

 

“Emma, are you sure?” Mary Margaret had asked, tears welling in her eyes at the prospect of losing her sister. Seventeen and jaded in a way Mary Margaret could never understand, Emma had given her an annoyed look. Mary Margaret had lost count of how many time she’d asked that exact question in the past twelve hours, but she doubted Emma had.

 

Emma had slung her hastily packed backpack over her shoulder, grabbing her sturdy black leather jacket from the couch in the sitting room. Coming over, she’d clasped Mary Margaret’s hands tightly in her own.

 

“I hate it here,” she’d sighed, her shoulders bogged down by the truth of that statement. Mary Margaret had felt a tear slip down her cheek but nodded in understanding. Emma separated one of her hands from Mary Margaret’s, reaching up to trace the nearly invisible scar just below her hairline.

 

A few months after their moving in with their aunt, a group of school children had appeared on the other side of the fence. Mary Margaret had smiled and invited them to come play, but the children had begun chanting cruel words and throwing rocks. One had caught her, nicking the skin. Mary Margaret had insisted on not telling Ingrid of the incident, not wanting to get the other children in trouble, and the wound had scarred slightly.

 

“You’ll always find me, right? Here, look,” Emma had promised, bending down to pull something from her boot. She’d flicked open the pocket knife, the metal glinting in the moonlight, and sliced it carefully down her palm, sucking air in through her teeth at the momentary pain. “My blood.”

 

She’d flipped Mary Margaret’s hand over, slicing a matching path down her palm. “Your blood.” Then, she’d pressed their hands together tightly. “Our blood.”

 

Emma had tugged Mary Margaret in for one more tight hug, free hand fisting in the back of her robe. Mary Margaret squeezed her eyes shut, hot tears spilling over the apples of her cheeks. She could feel the sticky wetness of the blood in her palm and knew she needed to clean it or risk leaving a trail of blood back up to her bedroom.

 

“I love you,” Emma had murmured, squeezing their clasped hands once more before releasing Mary Margaret. She’d darted out the patio door, tugging a chuckling Neal with her, and disappeared.

 

Mary Margaret lived with Ingrid for a few more years, until she had completed her education and could legally work as a school teacher. She found a small house closer to the center of town and worked towards becoming a normal member of society. Her powers had never been as strong or come to her as naturally as Emma’s had. They were easy to stow within her and only use in the comfort of her own home for small tasks.

 

When she was twenty-six, the town held an election for sheriff. David Nolan had won, unsurprisingly to most of the town. The Nolan’s family line goes back nearly as far as the Swan women’s, all the way back to the foundation of the town as a colony. All the way back to the witch trials.

 

“Beware the Nolan men,” Ingrid and Helga had always advised. “That George is trouble, no doubt his boys are being raised no differently.”

 

Except, James Nolan had died in a car accident while Mary Margaret and Emma were still teenagers and David had grown up with his mother, the bastard child of George. When that bit of information came out, rather than risk scandal, George had taken David in after his mother’s death. Despite her distance from witchcraft, Mary Margaret had still voted for David’s opponent.

 

She hadn’t met David until he came in for a career day at the school one day, a few months after his election. Mary Margaret had introduced him to her young students politely and kept her distance.

 

“You’re Mary Margaret Swan? One of Ingrid’s nieces?” David had asked, lingering by her desk despite the dismissal of the class moments prior. Mary Margaret had nodded hesitantly, keeping the desk between them. David had frowned before blurting, “You’re much prettier than I expected.”

 

“Charming,” Mary Margaret had commented dryly, raising an eyebrow at him. She began to pack her things, keeping David in her peripheral vision just in case. He had chuckled, shaking his head at himself.

 

“Sorry, that came out much creepier than I’d intended,” he’d insisted, tacking on quietly, “I hadn’t intended for it to come out at all.”

 

“It’s quite alright,” she’d sighed, tucking her folders and worksheets against her chest. Mary Margaret had looked him straight in the eye as she continued. “I suppose considering the things you must have heard about me, pretty is probably the best compliment I could hope for from you.”

 

David had blanched and Mary Margaret had glanced towards the window where the children out at recess could be heard playing. Before he could conjure a response, defense, or insult, she’d excused herself and slipped out of the room.

 

When Mary Margaret is twenty-seven, Emma moves back to Storybrooke and Mary Margaret meets Victor Whale.

 

-/-

 

Neal Cassidy had shown up in Emma’s life in a less than savory way and offered a chance to disappear. Emma craved the ability to exist within a world that didn’t flinch at her name, craved the easy way Neal smiled at her without that usual hint of fear.

 

She had loved him and that, as she should have remembered, ultimately doomed him.

 

It had left her eighteen, alone, and pregnant. Mary Margaret had sensed the trouble in her sister easily. Within minutes of the breaking of her heart, Emma had received a call from her sister. In the safety of her sister’s ear, Emma had cried. She had cried for the man she had loved, the child who would never know him, and her own bitter and aching heart.

 

She had returned to Storybrooke just long enough to have a home birth in her aunt’s house. After a few weeks of adjusting to parenthood, Emma had been off like a shot again. Desperate to find somewhere even further away from the past she couldn’t seem to escape, Emma had fled west.

 

Arizona put her as far from the little Maine town as she felt necessary. She’d settled into life in a large city easily, feeling more comfortable in the setting from her few years in Boston with Neal. Despite her separation from the town and her family’s secrets, Emma found a new and lucrative way to use her powers.

 

Becoming a bail bondsperson was a chance opportunity she stumbled into, a way to make a bit of money. A simple locator charm on the real tough to find jumpers kept her and Henry fed and housed. It’s a simple enough life for Emma, to blend into a large city and raise her son. It’s easy and for the first time in years, somewhere around Henry’s fifth birthday, she realizes she’s happier than she’s been in years.

 

The happiness makes her complacent. That’s when she meets Graham.

 

He worked for one of the police precincts her bail bonds firm contracted with and Emma had turned over many a skip to him. They had flirted and snarked at each other, usually intermittently, and he was always nice. His jokes were just awful, but Emma usually found herself grinning like an idiot anyway. Graham always seemed to count the smiles as a win.

 

“You’re surprisingly good at this,” he had commented once, after handing off a bail jumper she’d nabbed to a uniformed officer. Emma had raised an eyebrow at him and, after a beat, he realized why. “No, no, not surprising because you’re a woman or anything so archaic! I just haven’t seen anyone bring them in as quickly as you can. Fess up, Emma, what’s your secret?”

 

Emma had winked at him, answering simply, “Magic.”

 

Eventually Graham had worked up the nerve to ask her to coffee. Once Emma had stopped freaking out long enough to accept, coffee had turned to dinner which turned to weekend dates. He was always kind to Henry who, Emma found, adored Graham. She always teased him that it was the accent mixed with being a cop.

 

“I didn’t ask why _you_ like me, Emma,” Graham had responded, earning a punch in the arm from Emma.

 

When he asked her to marry him, Emma only took three days to decide on a yes. She managed a mere three years of happiness before she was swiftly reminded that she could run as far as she wanted from Storybrooke, but she would always be a Swan woman. As it turned out, curses had no distance limitations.

 

At twenty-nine, Emma threw anything that could fit into her single suitcase, packed up anything her ten-year-old could need, and moved back to Storybrooke. She moved back in with Ingrid, not wanting to intrude on Mary Margaret’s life despite her sister’s protests. Henry, not unaffected by the loss, handled all the change surprisingly well and Emma enrolled him into Mary Margaret’s school.

 

Emma, beside herself with the grief, didn’t leave the bed in her childhood room for a solid week. One morning, she’d woken to her sister lying next to her, fingers stroking gently through Emma’s hair.

 

“Hey, sis,” Mary Margaret had greeted softly and Emma had only managed a watery smile before the sobs had taken over, heavy and harsh. They rattled her ribcage as Mary Margaret held her.

 

“I was really happy, Mary Margaret,” she gasped, once the sobs had worked down to cries and she could find her voice again. “I was so happy.”

 

Mary Margaret had shushed her softly, fingers gently moving through the blonde tangles in Emma’s unwashed curls. Emma had told her about Graham, all the ways he had made her laugh, the home they’d created in their too-short time together. In a quiet voice, Emma’s described the ticking of a beetle she’d heard for three days prior. The way Graham and Henry insisted they didn’t hear it as she combed the house looking for the vile little thing.

 

“Oh, Emma,” Mary Margaret had sighed, wrapping her arms around Emma’s shoulders where they sat in front of the fireplace. There hadn’t been any more to it, no assurances that there was no such curse. No lies that everything would be okay. Mary Margaret had sat with Emma in their childhood home for a full day, listening as Emma described her lost love and sharing her own stories of the years Emma had missed.

 

“I know it hurts, sweetie,” Mary Margaret said eventually, gripping Emma’s hand as they lay in her bed. Emma closed her eyes and let the fresh wave of sadness wash over her. “But you can’t do this, okay? You have to get up out of bed, you have to take care of that boy who just adores you, alright?”

 

Emma had chewed on her lip, nodding at Mary Margaret’s statements. She’d known her response wasn’t healthy, known she’d end up just like their mother. She couldn’t do that to Henry, would never leave him that way. She needed time, though.

 

“And, for heaven’s sake, take a shower,” Mary Margaret had continued, a teasing not to her voice now, making Emma’s eyes go wide with surprise and offense. She had slapped her sister’s arm, shoving her out of the bed as Mary Margaret giggled.

 

The next day, Emma had gotten out of bed and set about finding her place in this new-old town.

 

Nearly five months after Emma decided to start living again, she’s settled into a place in Storybrooke that feels completely new and, at the same time, strikingly familiar. During the week, she runs her aunts herbal shop for them, earning cautious looks from skittish customers as they peruse the shelves. They stock things like belladonna, sage, and types of herbal teas, but it’s easy to spot the customers who come in looking for something a little more witch-like.

 

“Careful of that one,” Ruby, one of the other women who help with the store, comments to just such a customer. “If you use it on the third full moon of an even numbered year in the gregorian calendar, you’ll curse all your male offspring to have small wieners.”

 

The man startles, dropping the jar of harmless tea leaves back onto the shelf with a thud before running from the store, coughing out an excuse about forgetting his wallet. Ruby catches Emma’s eye and wiggles her eyebrows.

 

“How is it that _I’m_ the one Ingrid doesn’t think is enough of a people person for this job?” Emma asks. Ruby shrugs smugly, righting the overturned jar. Emma shakes her head at the woman, apparently her sister’s closest friend and one of the few people in town impervious to the fearmongering about _those dreaded Swan women_. She can remember how Ingrid had sat Emma down gently to inform her she wouldn’t be working the store alone.

 

“It’s not that we don’t trust you,” Ingrid had insisted, gently stroking Emma’s arm. “It’s just that you’re not much good with people, you know?”

 

The job is temporary anyway, as far as Emma is concerned. Her weekend job involves much more suspicion and spite from people, unfortunately. She works at the sheriff’s office, trying to prove herself fit enough to be a deputy. The sheriff, David Nolan, seems nice enough but Emma doesn’t trust him. She doesn’t trust much of anyone in this town, though. Apparently, her past of picking up bail jumpers doesn’t make her fit for police work, so Emma files paperwork while David teaches her the inner workings of the job in his free time.

 

Emma’s pretty sure he’s only doing it to get on Mary Margaret’s good side anyway.

 

“Well,” Ruby says, clapping her hands together and startling Emma out of her thoughts. “I’m gonna take my break. You can handle the place for an hour without me, can’t you?”

 

Emma sighs. “You’re just leaving so you don’t have to help me with inventory, aren’t you?”

 

“I’ll bring back lunch from Granny’s,” Ruby calls as she heads out the door, ignoring Emma’s question. Emma groans and shakes her head at the woman’s retreating form before pulling a clipboard from under the cash register.

 

She’s circling the shop, trying to count all of the little jars and mark down what Ingrid and Helga absolutely need to refill before the next business day, when the bell over the door signals a new customer. The bell is one of those small, tinkling ones that rings multiple times before it’s momentum runs out. Emma has nearly used the footstool behind the counter to rip it down on multiple occasions.

 

Emma heaves a sigh and turns to the new arrival. He doesn’t look familiar, but that doesn’t mean much considering her time away, dressed head to toe in black. Emma raises an eyebrow, the heat of Maine in the summer is not a good place for the outfit. He shoots her a cursory glance before returning his attentions to the shelves and Emma figures he must also be looking for some item of magical significance. When will this town learn?

 

“Can I help you?” Emma asks in a bored tone as she sets the clipboard on the shelf and crosses her arm, tracking his progress around the shop.

 

“That’s not very good customer service,” he comments, looking over at her with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. Emma falters for a moment, having expected him to cower under her direct gaze. His voice is accented and she wonders if he’s just a wandering tourist.

 

“Were you looking for anything in particular?” Emma presses, only a little nicer this time, ignoring his comment. He seems unperturbed, glancing around the shop with a flourish of his hand. Emma notices the stiffness of the fingers on his other hand, the way he keeps his arm bent at the elbow and tucked to to his side, a prosthetic.

 

“Aye, chamomile tea,” he explains. Emma nods, crossing the room to join him near the teas. She reaches around him, pulling the jar of light colored flower buds off the shelf behind him. He doesn’t follow the movement of her arm, rather tracking her proximity as she leans towards him. Emma rocks back on her heels, holding the jar up for him.

 

“How very English of you,” she comments as he plucks the jar from her fingers, skin brushing momentarily against hers. Turning, Emma leads him back towards the counter to cash out the purchase.

 

“Irish, actually,” he says as she rounds the counter. Emma nods at that, unsurprised by the correction. She’d recognize the accent anywhere, after all. He sets the jar on the counter as she types the correct amount into the ancient cash register. “I’m Killian, by the way. Killian Jones.”

 

Emma doesn’t bat an eye as she looks up from the register. “Hemorrhoids?”

 

Killian barks out a laugh of surprise at the question. He shakes his head though, leaning forward a bit.

 

“Insomnia, love,” he corrects. Emma hums dubiously in response. Killian seems completely unbothered by it. “You didn’t give me your name.”

 

“You’re right, I didn’t,” she smirks. “That’ll be seven-fifty.”

 

Killian surveys her for a moment before nodding. He pulls the money out of his nearly obscenely tight pants and hands it over to her. Emma opens the register and places it inside, waiting for the old machine to print him a receipt. Once she rips it off and hands it to him, Killian seems to consider something for a moment before leaning forward more.

 

“Y’know, darling, if you’re interested,” he starts, eyes dipping to her lips and letting Emma know she definitely _isn’t_ interested in wherever this is going. “There are more fun ways to cure my sleeplessness.”

 

Emma’s eyes go wide in surprise and she opens her mouth to tell him exactly how _not interested_ she is when the bell above the door tinkles again.

 

“We come bearing onion rings,” Mary Margaret calls, entering the shop with Ruby trailing behind her. Killian falls back onto his heels, pushing himself away from the counter, and Mary Margaret lets out a soft, embarrassed laugh. “Oh, sorry.”

 

“Quite alright, lass,” Killian assures her. “We were just finishing up.”

 

He wraps his knuckles against the countertop and sends Emma a wink - it’s more of a smarmy blink, considering he can hardly do it without closing both eyes - before turning and heading out of the store, offering smiles to Mary Margaret and Ruby on the way out. Once the door closes behind him, Ruby lets out a whistle.

 

“Who was that?” She asks, grin forming on her red lips. Emma picks up the receipt he’d left on the counter and shreds it, tossing it into the trash can underneath the counter.

 

“Trouble,” she comments dryly. Mary Margaret shoots her a worried look, but Emma rounds the counter to take one of the paper bags from them, rifling around for her food. She doubts she’ll see Killian Jones again, anyway.

 

She bites back a curse when she spots the jar of chamomile still sitting on the counter.

 

-/-

 

Killian Jones, as they learn from Ruby, is a recent arrival in town. A recluse, for the most part, who prefers to spend his time on his docked boat and not around the townspeople. Emma holds up the jar of chamomile and asks Ruby to deliver it to his boat.

 

“Sure,” Ruby grins, gripping the jar tightly between her hands, black painted nails standing out against the faded whites and yellows of the buds. “Mind if I try to hit that while I’m there?”

 

“Be my guest,” Emma waves her off, digging through the greasy paper bag propped up on the counter top. Mary Margaret raises an eyebrow at her, but Ruby catches her gaze wagging her eyebrows salaciously and earning a chuckle from Mary Margaret. The bell above the door tinkles as Ruby leaves and Mary Margaret crosses the room to grab Emma’s elbow gently.

 

“Come on,” she says at her sister’s questioning glance. Mary Margaret tugs lightly and Emma picks up the bag, allowing her to lead. “It’s gorgeous outside today, you can close for an hour to enjoy lunch with your sister, can’t you?”

 

“Mary Margaret Swan suggesting I shirk my responsibilities?” Emma teases as Mary Margaret sticks her tongue out at her pushing through the door of the shop. She lingers on the sidewalk as Emma stops to lock the door. “Have I entered one of those parallel universes Henry likes to theorize about?”

 

“Oh, hardy har, you’re a laugh riot, Emma Swan,” Mary Margaret responds dryly, leading her to one of the sets of garden chairs that decorates the sidewalk. They set their bags on the white painted wrought iron table and take their seats. “I’m not a total goody-two-shoes, I’ll have you know.” Emma hums dubiously and Mary Margaret presses on, “Not anymore anyway. You were gone for a long time, things change.”

 

She had meant the comment lightly and has already removed two of the styrofoam containers from the bag before she notices Emma’s silence. Mary Margaret looks up at her sister and frowns. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

 

“No, I know,” Emma says stiffly. Mary Margaret sighs, sliding the container with Emma’s grilled cheese and side of onion rings inside across the table. “It’s true, though, I’ve clearly missed a lot. Sorry about that.”

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Mary Margaret insists, reaching over to place her hand overtop of Emma’s. Emma offers her a sad smile. “You’re here now. There’s plenty of time for catching up.”

 

They lapse into comfortable conversation as Mary Margaret finally manages to locate her own food within the bags. She asks if Emma thinks Ruby will be able to bed the mysterious newcomer and Emma shrugs commenting lightly, “He seemed the type. Besides, Ruby’s _everyone’s_ type.”

 

“Hey, can I ask you something?” Emma asks, catching Mary Margaret as she takes a large bite of her BLT. She nods, covering her mouth at the motion. “How’s Henry doing? Not just grades and all that, the kid is so much smarter than me already, but how is he _doing_?”

 

Mary Margaret nods in acknowledgement and understanding of what Emma’s asking and hurries to finish the food in her mouth. She sets her sandwich down and folds her hands together on top of the table.

 

“He’s good, Emma, as well as a child can be considering what’s happened,” Mary Margaret assures her. Emma nods, still looking uneasy, so she continues, “Seriously, if you’re worried about him, you needn’t be. He’s strong and brilliant, just like his mother, he’ll make it through it.”

 

Emma lets out a breath and nods at her sister’s words. Mary Margaret watches her with concern, considering the lines of her face and way she chews the inside of her cheek. It’s been months now since Graham’s death, but Emma’s faced so much loss and Mary Margaret doesn’t know how to fix any of it for her. She’ll catch it sometimes in Emma’s face, a shadow of the grief brought on by a memory Mary Margaret doesn’t know, and her heart aches for her. As much as the thought pains her, Mary Margaret knows only Emma can heal herself over time.

 

The train of thought is interrupted by the arrival of David Nolan.

 

“Miss Swan,” he greets as he steps up towards the table. Both women turn at the moniker, but David’s eyes are trained on Mary Margaret. “It’s such a lovely afternoon, it really does seem as though everyone is out enjoying the sun. You’re quite a ways from the school today.”

 

He has a bag from the convenience store hanging from his fingers and Mary Margaret assumes it must be his lunch time as well. She’s come to know him well enough over the past few months that she knows whatever is in the bag is probably microwaveable and full of ingredients that would make a nutritionist cringe. She’d admonish him if she thought it’d do any good, if it was her place to do so.

 

“I thought I’d get lunch off school grounds today,” Mary Margaret explains easily, shielding her eyes from the sun so she can look up at the sheriff. His eyes crinkle at the edges as he smiles at her. Mary Margaret is powerless to return it. “Spend an hour or so with my sister. You aren’t going to arrest me for truancy, are you?”

 

David lets out a genuine laugh and Mary Margaret vaguely registers Emma’s confused frown. She resists the urge to poke out her tongue at her sister and insist that some people do find her funny. Actual adults, not just the children she teaches.

 

“Well, I’ll have to look into the law, but I don’t believe it applies to teachers,” David responds, grin never wavering. Mary Margaret shrugs in a _well-what-can-ya-do_ gesture. “Wouldn’t want to waste tax dollars on a fruitless arrest.”

 

“Well, then, I won’t hold you up. What would the taxpayers say if they knew you were wasting time talking to me?” She asks. David shakes his head, leaning forward a bit, and Mary Margaret can suddenly see the light blue color of his eyes much clearer.

 

“Talking to you could never be a waste,” he assures her. It’s so cheesy that Mary Margaret catches Emma pretending to gag from her peripheral. Regardless, it sets something fluttering in her stomach and she averts her gaze. David continues, rocking back on his heels, “That said, I should be getting back. I’ll see you around, Mary Margaret.”

 

He makes it two steps in the direction of the sheriff’s station before Emma stops him, calling out, “Bye David!”

 

He jolts in surprise, turning back to the table and staring at Emma in surprise. He lifts his free hand in an awkward attempt at a wave. “Oh, bye, Emma.”

 

It isn’t until he’s out of sight that Mary Margaret turns back around in her seat to face Emma. Emma’s arms are crossed as she raises an eyebrow at her. Mary Margaret looks back down at her sandwich, avoiding her sister’s gaze.

 

“Okay, _what_ was that?” She demands. Mary Margaret gives a half hearted shrug, picking her sandwich back up. “Come _on_ , are you kidding? He had no idea I was even here. I work with the guy and yet, for all he knows, I could have been standing here dancing naked and calling spirits.”

 

“Emma,” Mary Margaret gasps, rolling her eyes at her sister’s dramatics. The last thing they need is someone around them hearing them discussing _spirits_ of all things. “It’s nothing, really. David’s just friendly.”

 

“No, Granny Lucas is _friendly_ ,” Emma insists. “What I just watched was _flirty_. I didn’t even know you knew how to flirt, let alone did I need an up-close demonstration of it.”

 

“God, Emma, I’m twenty-seven not seven, of course I know how to flirt,” Mary Margaret insists with a huff, tightening her cardigan around her defensively. “But whatever you _think_ that was, it doesn’t matter. Because David is a _Nolan_.”

 

That seems to sober her sister up. Emma sits back in her seat, nodding in understanding at the point. David may be nice and friendly, he may be the first sheriff they’ve had in a long time whose sole mission isn’t to investigate them and their aunts at every turn for the sake of keeping voters. But at the end of the day, he’s a Nolan man and they’ve never brought the Swan family line anything but trouble.

 

“Maybe,” Emma starts slowly, leaning forward again to rest her chin in her hand. “Maybe not everyone is defined by their last name.”

 

“Are you talking about David,” Mary Margaret asks on a frown, watching the way her sister carefully eyes the busy street. “Or us?”

 

Emma is quiet for a long minute, but just as she opens her mouth to respond Ruby appears. She plops down in one of the empty metal chairs and begins opening styrofoam lids looking for her own food with a groan.

 

“I am starving,” she gripes. “Last time I run your errands for you, Emma Swan.”

 

“What?” Emma asks, sitting back in the chair and crossing her arms over her chest once more. Ruby digs into the lasagna she’d ordered from her grandmother’s restaurant. “Not a good lay?”

 

“God, who knows? His interest was, like, nill which I mean,” she waves her fork up and down her torso as demonstration, “come _on_. I guess I read him wrong.”

 

She concludes on a shrug, clearly unbothered by Killian Jones’ lack of interest, and puts her focus fully on the food in front of her. Mary Margaret shakes her head fondly at her friend and misses the way her sister frowns at Ruby’s response.

 

-/-

 

“Emma Swan!”

 

Emma startles at her name being called from behind her, turning with a confused frown. People don’t really approach her in town, besides family members and Ruby. Those who’ve come to Ingrid for help know her family’s power first hand. Those who don’t mostly just believe the whispers. It’s better than having stones thrown at her, she supposes.

 

“Ha, that’s your name, isn’t it?” Killian Jones is grinning smugly as he jogs to catch up with her. Emma sighs and continues in her stride towards the sheriff’s station, Killian falling into step next to her. It’s been a little over a week since she’d met him in the store and she’d actually lulled herself into the belief that she might not run into him again.

 

“You found me out,” she responds dryly. Killian seems completely unaffected by her tone, keeping his pace next to her and smiling easily. It’s too early in the morning for most of the town to be out and about, the early summer sun only just beginning to peek over the horizon. Unfortunately, Emma has to be at the sheriff’s station this early every Saturday morning. She has no idea why Killian is awake so early.

 

“Ah, well, it wasn’t too hard, if I’m to be honest,” he admits. Emma glances him from the corner of her eye as his hand lifts to scratch behind his ear. A nervous tell. She frowns, there’s typically only one reason people get nervous around her when she’s not in bounty hunter mode. “You’re almost like a myth around this strange town.”

 

Emma grunts, undecided as to whether she actually wants to pursue this topic. On the one hand, she needs no help imagining the terrible things Killian is sure to have heard about her. On the other, well, she kind of wants to know what ridiculous rumors the town has cooked up in the years she’s been gone.

 

“A myth, huh?” She offers finally. She glances over at Killian, still clad in his leather and dark colors. He’s going to overheat in that getup if he doesn’t switch it up soon. “Well, you know what they say about small towns.”

 

“What’s that, Swan?” He asks, his stride slowing enough that Emma’s slows with it until they’re stagnant on the sidewalk. A sea breeze blows the awning above the bookstore upwards, fabric rustling loudly in the quiet street.

 

“People have to manufacture their own entertainment,” she sighs, turning to face him. Killian takes a step forward, just within her personal space but not yet encroaching upon what Emma would call _groin kick territory_. He tilts his head at her and she feels like she’s being studied. Resisting the instinct to squirm under the scrutiny, she meets his blue gaze unyieldingly.

 

“And what sorts of entertainment do you manufacture, love?” He asks, voice dangerously low. Emma doesn’t think he’s waiting for a response like “oh, I turn men into frogs and dance naked in the moonlight in my free time”. She almost gives it, just to see the reaction, though. Instead, she shrugs lazily and tilts her head in turn.

 

“I sell herbal remedies and teas for my aunts,” she answers, voice giving away nothing even as Killian searches her face. “I hang out with my kid. Occasionally, I catch bail jumpers out of town.”

 

Killian’s lips twitch at the response, a small smile taking up residence that Emma would almost call fond if the notion weren’t ridiculous for a stranger. He nods as if her answer is an acceptable one and turns from her, continuing her original trek towards the station. Emma rolls her eyes, but follows him.

 

“What about you, huh?” She asks, despite herself. She shouldn’t be putting forth the effort to get to know this man, mostly a mystery even to Ruby who is usually like a living rolodex for town gossip. “What brings you to our little seaside haven?”

 

“My ship,” Killian answers succinctly and here Emma thought she was the one of the two least likely to give answers. It’s unfair in a way, thanks to this stupid town he already knows everything the town finds relevant about her. He shoots her a smirk and Emma realizes the response had merely been for the benefit of her annoyance. “That and a need for a change of scenery. As it turned out, some other coastal towns south of here were a little too heavy on people.”

 

Emma smirks. “Not a people person, huh?”

 

“Quite the contrary, I’ll have you know people love me,” he responds, answering her smirk with one of his own. Emma hums dubiously.

 

“Is that so?”

 

“Aye,” he nods, sounding absolutely sure of himself. Emma would roll her eyes again if she weren’t afraid this conversation was going to cause them to roll right out of her head. “That’s just it, isn’t it? The adoration can get a bit much, you see, I needed a break from it all.”

 

“Oh, I’m sure,” Emma nods, grinning despite herself. Killian chances a glance at her, noticing the smile on her lips and lets out a laugh. His hand brushes lightly against hers as they walk and Emma pulls her arms into herself, crossing them over her chest. He lets out a nearly imperceptible sigh, but doesn’t comment.

 

“So, you know what the town thinks of me,” she comments, unable to resist. She’s always had a penchant for treacherous waters, she supposes, and this is no exception. Nothing good can come of knowing what the town says behind her back, considering how much they say to her face. Killian inclines his head slightly, watching her carefully from the corner of his eye. “Why are you running after me on an empty street, then? Aren’t you afraid for your safety?”

 

“Poor form to listen to rumor, Swan,” he shrugs, her cold tone having no affect on him. “Unfortunately, in this town, it seems impossible to avoid. Doesn’t mean I need to believe it, of course.”

 

He catches her upper arm suddenly, in a surprisingly gentle grasp. It’s just enough to stall her momentum, getting her to turn to face him on the sidewalk once again, before he lets go. Emma frowns at him.

 

“I’d rather get to know you personally and make my own judgements from there,” Killian tells her softly, once again just at the edge of her personal space, testing the waters. She nibbles at the inside of her lip and considers him. He’d shown up out of nowhere on his _ship_ and caused quite his own stir in the rumor mill. There’d been too many contradicting stories for Emma to commit any of it to memory, but they’d all added up to one near certainty; Killian Jones, with his intense stare and his thick accent and his exposed collarbone, is trouble.

 

Emma left trouble behind years ago.

 

“You’re afraid to reveal yourself, whoever you may be underneath your armor and walls,” he comments at her prolonged silence, taking one step forward into her space. She squares her shoulders and meets his eye. “You’re afraid to trust.”

 

“I try not to make it a habit of trusting handsome strangers with secrets,” Emma admits, a little coldly as she shakes her head. Killian’s eyes flash at her assertion that he has secrets and it only confirms the belief. Suddenly, his face lights and a grin takes over his features. Emma raises an eyebrow in surprise at the change.

 

“That’s quite alright, darling,” he says, voice light. “I love a challenge.”

 

Emma rocks back on her heels, surprised at the comment. Without a response, she can only frown at him until someone behind them calls her name, startling Emma and causing her to break away from Killian’s gaze. She glances over her shoulder to find David moving swiftly down the sidewalk towards them.

 

“Hey, there you are,” he calls, jogging the last few steps over to them. His gaze lands on Killian who has taken a few steps back, Emma realizes, no longer in her space. David frowns, greeting Killian with a chilly “Mr. Jones.”

 

“Sheriff,” Killian nods, offering a nearly mocking salute. Emma narrows her eyes, looking between the two men, but Killian turns his gaze back to her before she can question it. “I should leave you to your work, Swan. I’m sure I’ll see you later.”

 

She frowns at the assumption but Killian is gone, heading back across the street and in the direction of the docks, before she can refute it. Instead, she turns her attention to David who is still frowning after the man.

 

“What’s up?” Emma asks, pulling his attention back to her. David shakes his head and his tight expression melts into something much friendlier. It’s the expression she’s come to expect from David, towards almost every person in town, in fact. _Kind eyes_ , her mind recites suddenly and she frowns to herself at the memory of her sister.

 

“How would you like to accompany me on a call today?” David asks, jolting Emma back to the present. Her eyes go wide at the offer.

 

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” She asks warily. Emma doesn’t want to be stuck filing paperwork while David just explains to her what a deputy job is like every Saturday for the rest of her life. But, also, she doesn’t know how anyone in town will react to her presence at their beloved sheriff’s side.

 

“Absolutely,” David insists, despite Emma’s concern. “If you’re going to be a deputy, the town needs to get used to you as a civil servant, someone who is there to help them.”

 

“Yeah, you may be aiming a little high,” Emma grumbles, but David ignores her negativity as he continues down the street. She sighs and follows after him, lacking another option. David is nearly as bad as Mary Margaret with his never ending optimism and eternal hope springs.

 

“Come on,” David calls, stalling long enough to let her match his stride. “Apparently, someone broke into the library last night.”

 

“I will bet you three tins of that fresh ginger you like we find out it was Will Scarlet,” she comments once she catches up to him. David gives her an admonishing look as they continue down the street, back past the bookstore where she and Killian had paused.

 

“Now, Emma,” he scolds gently. “It’s not right to bet on a sure thing.”

 

-/-

 

Mary Margaret knows she has the tendency to overcompensate. She hears it in Ingrid’s tutting that she’s working too hard, in the other teachers “ _oh, you’re not leaving yet?_ ” surprise as they pass by her classroom on their way out. She knows she has a tendency to spread herself thin in order to prove herself. After over five years, she’s still desperately trying to prove herself.

 

Of course, the time she’s spent at her job means practically nothing. She can shape all the young minds she likes, send them off to become doctors, lawyers, and the most brilliant of societal influencers. It won’t matter, really, not to this town.

 

If she starts to think about that, though, Mary Margaret can only spiral downwards in a terrifying mindset of despair. Emma thinks she’s unendingly and annoyingly optimistic, maybe she is. What her sister doesn’t understand is that she needs to be. Emma has her snark and a million more ways of distancing herself from the townspeople.

 

Optimism and hard work are Mary Margaret’s own defense mechanism.

 

It’s what has her sitting at her desk, grading papers and preparing her syllabus for the last few weeks of classes until so late into the evening that the sun has started to dip behind the horizon. At the beginning of summer, that means it’s late. Startled at the realization, Mary Margaret checks the time and rushes to gather her things up.

 

She locks the door to her classroom and switches keys in her hands to lock the door to the whole building once she’s outside. It’s customary that all the teaching staff have keys. The school doesn’t have an elaborate security system so whoever leaves last, locks up. Mary Margaret would usually take her time and check all the other rooms, but tonight she’s certain she’s the last.

 

There’s a rustling behind her as Mary Margaret slips the key into the lock, turning it and hearing the tell tale click of the tumblers. She startles and whips around to find the source of the noise, keys slipping from her hand and hitting the pavement.

 

“Oh, Victor,” Mary Margaret gasps, placing her hand over her heart. She stoops down to pick the ring of keys back up and offers the man a cautious smile. “You scared me.”

 

Victor barks a laugh that’s on the edge of what she would consider condescending. “Yes, I noticed that.”

 

Mary Margaret offers him another smile before turning to head down the sidewalk towards her house. She can hear Victor’s footfalls as he follows her. Glancing around the street, Mary Margaret is surprised at the quiet night surrounding them. With summer rapidly closing in on the town, people are usually more actively outdoors.

 

“You’re out pretty late,” Victor comments from where he’s fallen into step behind her. Mary Margaret adjusts the strap of her tote bag and nods at him. “Busy day?”

 

“Ah, yeah, just lots to do before the school year ends,” Mary Margaret chirps, unable to contain her excitement for the weeks she has planned for the kids. Lacking children of her own, and the immediate means to create some, Mary Margaret feels like she forges a special connection with every one of her students. She thinks they like her in return, too, despite what their parents may feel.

 

Victor doesn’t seem particularly interested in it, though, nodding his head before pressing on. “Right, so listen, I was thinking we’d get a drink tonight.” The lack of a question makes Mary Margaret’s brow furrow. “It’s been a while since we got together.”

 

Mary Margaret sighs, unprepared to let the man down gently but clearly needing to do so. She’d met Victor a few months prior, when he’d moved back to town after finishing his residency at some big hospital. He’d showed at interest and pursued her for a while. In a weak moment, Mary Margaret had given in and they’d ended up sleeping together. Not her finest moment, surely, but she’d thought Victor understood that it wasn’t anything more than that.

 

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Victor,” Mary Margaret responds gently. Something flashes in his eyes but she continues. “I’m supposed to have dinner with my aunt and sister and I just don’t think we should have a repeat of what happened last time.”

 

It’s a lie, sort of, she wasn’t expressly invited over for dinner. Mary Margaret isn’t above changing her routine around a bit to stop by the old Victorian house if necessary though. Victor doesn’t really seem pleased with this answer, as the corners of his mouth pull down in a frown.

 

“No, no, that’s not it,” he bites out and Mary Margaret’s eyes widen in surprise. “This isn’t about dinner with your family, is it? This is about Nolan, isn’t it?”

 

Mary Margaret shakes her head, but before she can argue the point Victor is moving. He paces in front of her, waving his arms as he speaks. The whole picture it creates is something a little mad. She grips the strap of her bag and takes a step back from him.

 

“What is it about that asshole that makes everyone think he’s so great?” Victor rants. “He’s not that great. He’s just some half-wit who inherited a name that gives him power. That doesn’t make him some- some- _prince_!”

 

“Victor, this isn’t-” Mary Margaret tries, not interested in debating David Nolan’s personality. Victor cuts her off, stopping in his tracks to look her dead in the eye. Mary Margaret stumbles back another step, surprised at the intensity of his gaze.

 

“I’d expect you of all people to see through it, at least,” he growls, following her step backwards with a step forwards of his own. “How could you expect him to ever return those feelings of yours? Everyone sees how you pine after him. He’s a _great Nolan_ , what could he ever feel for you but disgust?”

 

Mary Margaret feels the hot pricks of tears building in her eyes, but refuses to allow him the satisfaction of making her cry. Instead, she says, curtly, “I’m not interested in you, Victor. I’m sorry if that hurts your feelings, but I’m certain you’ll make a full recovery.”

 

She spins on the ball of her foot, the rubber sole of her converse scuffing against the pavement, and makes to walk away from him. Victor’s hand closes roughly around her bicep though, gripping her painfully as he tugs her back to face him. Mary Margaret gives a startled shout but Victor presses his other hand to her mouth as he presses her back against the building they’d stopped in front of.

 

“I’m not finished talking, Mary Margaret,” he says, the calm of his voice betrayed by the simmering rage in his eyes. He’s pressed close enough that Mary Margaret can smell the booze already on his breath. “Don’t you know it’s very rude to walk away from someone who’s talking to you? Makes one wonder what kind of manners you might be teaching those students of yours.”

 

Mary Margaret struggles against his palm, eyes wide with panic. She thinks of the tote bag pressed to her side, the pepper spray rolling uselessly along the bottom of it. His fingers dig into the skin of her arm still, hard enough to bruise and cause tears to spring once more to her eyes. Still, she refuses to let them fall, squeezing her eyes shut.

 

Victor continues to rant like a drunk lunatic, about all manner of things from the Nolans to herself. She distinctly hears the term _fucking tease_ and if he weren’t so close she’d knee him in the groin merely for the insinuation.

 

“Hey, what that fuck are you doing?” A familiar voice calls out from a little ways down the street, followed by heavy and quick footfalls against concrete. Mary Margaret’s eyes fly open in relief and she takes in the sight of her sister, a furious presence in red leather as her blonde curls fly out behind her.

 

“Oh, great,” Victor grumbles, releasing his hold somewhat on Mary Margaret. He steps away so he’s not pressing her against the building quite so harshly. “Your sister and I were just having a chat.”

 

“Yeah, I can see exactly what kind of conversation you were having,” Emma bites, stepping towards him menacingly. “Wanna take your hands off of her?”

 

Victor scoffs, looking between the women with something like amusement. Mary Margaret figures he’s trying to play their interaction off as innocuous, but Emma is smarter than that and doesn’t bite. Victor has his attention on her, though, and it’s enough for Mary Margaret. She strikes out with her leg, quick as lightning, and catching him just in the joint of his knee. Victor drops to his knees on the concrete with a curse and Mary Margaret breaks away from him to run over to her sister.

 

“You _bitch_ ,” he barks. “You could have dislocated it or torn something. You’re gonna fucking pay for that.”

 

Emma rolls her eyes at him while he struggles to his feet. “You don’t have any more cards to play here, Whale. Go home, while you still have the option.”

 

His knee must not be in as bad of shape as he’s projecting because he moves suddenly, lunging forward before either of them can act. Suddenly, Mary Margaret is on her back on the concrete with him on top of her. Her head knocks against the ground, blurring her vision at the edges, and Victor’s hands wrap around her neck.

 

Her windpipe closes under the pressure and Mary Margaret gasps for air, clawing at his hands around her throat. Emma is shoving at him from behind, trying to knock him off. Finally she gives a good full-bodied shove, knocking him to the concrete. His head hits the ground, hard, but Emma is helping Mary Margaret back to her feet.

 

“Are you alright?” She asks and Mary Margaret nods, hand coming up to her throat as she sucks air into her lungs gratefully. She looks down at Victor and then back at Emma.

 

“He’s not, though,” she observes quietly, fingers shaking as she gestures to the unmoving man sprawled out on the sidewalk. Emma shoots her a wide eyed look before crouching down next to him, fingers searching his neck for a pulse.

 

Standing up, Emma runs a hand through her hair and looks at Mary Margaret, observing succinctly, “shit.”

 

Mary Margaret stares down at the body of Victor Whale and can’t help but agree. Shit, indeed.

 

-/-

 

“Oh, God,” Mary Margaret repeats, her mantra of the past few minutes. She’s pacing back and forth across the pavement and clutching her tote bag tightly. “Oh, God. Oh, God. Emma, what do we do?”

 

From what Emma knows Victor Whale was a real asshole and, after catching him clearly intent on hurting her sister, she’s having a hard time finding a shred of sympathy for the man. Except, she thinks of Henry and the possibility of prison. That’s not happening.

 

“Okay, listen,” Emma says finally, turning to stop Mary Margaret’s pacing. She places her hands on the other woman’s shoulders. “You have to calm down. I think there’s a way we can fix this, but we have to get him back to the house.”

 

“The house?” Mary Margaret gasps. “Aunt Ingrid’s? But what about her and Henry?”

 

“They went out for ice cream right before I came out to find you,” Emma assures her. She crouches down next to Victor again, lifting one of his limp arms and wrapping it around her shoulder. Mary Margaret follows her example and they heft him to his feet. His head lolls against his shoulders and Emma notices a blooming redness in his hair. “I could feel that something was off and knew you needed my help.”

 

“How do you intend to fix this?” Mary Margaret asks as they begin carrying Victor’s body down the street. It’s empty right now, but Emma doesn’t know how long they can get away with this for. The drunk angle might work, usually, but not in this town. Not for her and her sister.

 

“There’s a spell,” Emma explains. “I remember seeing it in one of the books. We’ll just mix up whatever we need and the good doctor here will be fine.”

 

She doesn’t mention that she’d thought of the spell after Graham died, had considering trying to bring him back with it. Ingrid had warned her against it when she’d asked, insisting there were some things nature simply couldn’t condone. Victor was already barely human, she doubts any spell can make it worse.

 

It’s a pain in the ass getting him back to the house, but they manage it uninterrupted. Emma clears off the table in the kitchen and they spread him across it. She makes a mental note to disinfect and maybe just burn the table when this is over.

 

Mary Margaret lights the candles while Emma locates the book. It’s not the most complex spell she’s ever seen but it’s been over a decade since she tried something more elaborate than a locater spell. They need something white to paint the pentagram across his chest and Mary Margaret hands her one of Ingrid’s yoghurts from the fridge.

 

“It’s all I can find,” she shrugs and Emma shakes her head. Whatever, it’ll do she supposes. There’s chanting and needles that are meant to be inserted into places needles should not be inserted. It’s the type of magic Emma hasn’t done in a very long time, but she’s nonetheless still good at it. Ingrid always said she had a natural talent.

 

Victor sits up, eyes wide and glassed over, and immediately lunges for Mary Margaret again. He gets his hands around her neck and Emma acts without thinking. It takes three solid knocks from Ingrid’s trusty cast iron skillet before he slumps to the floor. His breathing has ceased again and Emma groans.

 

Mary Margaret crosses to her, hand once again rubbing at the red marks on her neck. Emma doubts they’ll be gone by the morning, she may be cursed with scarves for a week or so. Her free hand grips Emma’s as they stare down at the lifeless heap on the kitchen floor.

 

“What now?” Mary Margaret asks.

  
Emma thinks it bares repeating after the night they’re having; Shit.


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to switch up the posting schedule for this one since it's only three chapters. Enjoy!

Mary Margaret grips Emma’s hand and bounces anxiously on her toes. She is absolutely going to have bruises on her neck by morning and there’s a stinging in her cheek from where it had scraped against the concrete. She imagines the skin is red and irritated, hopes it’s not broken. It’ll be much harder to cover up than the bruises.

 

And, of course, Victor Whale is lying lifeless and spread eagle in front of them. For the second time tonight.

 

Emma is surprisingly quiet as she contemplates the situation before her, but Mary Margaret is having trouble exuding the same kind of calm. She knows it’s just how her sister is, there’s a storm going on inside she’s sure, but her unending silence is beginning to unnerve Mary Margaret even more. She releases Emma’s hand and begins pacing around the kitchen table.

 

“What if we just go to the police?” She suggests, running a hand through her short hair. “It was self-defense, I’m sure David could understand that!”

 

“Yeah, maybe if we’d settled with only killing him once,” Emma comments. Mary Margaret lets out a huff, deflating along with any hope of this being okay. It’s not like Victor didn’t deserve it, in some cosmic way, at least. Mary Margaret represses a shudder as she remembers how he’d had her pressed against the building before Emma had shown up.

 

“I can’t lose my kid,” Emma says suddenly, quieter than she’s been all night. Mary Margaret stops in her tracks and turns to face her sister. Here she is worried about police and losing her job and, Jesus, Emma has a _son_ to worry about losing. She rushes across the room to pull Emma into her arms, stroking her fingers through her hair.

 

“No, no, you’re not going to, okay?” Mary Margaret insists, pulling away to make eye contact with Emma. She places her hands on either side of her cheeks and holds her gaze. “This was my mess. I’ll go to David, explain what happened, and take any consequences.”

 

Emma shakes her head, forceful enough to knock Mary Margaret’s palms away. “How are you going to hold that it was self defense when he now has two, count ‘em _two_ , skull fractures on the back of his head? He’s going to know you couldn’t have done it while also being strangled.”

 

Emma goes still for a moment, her eyes flashing with an idea and Mary Margaret frowns. Ignoring her look, Emma continues, “Get the shovels from the shed and meet me in the garden!”

 

Mary Margaret stalls for a minute, watching her sister heft Victor’s legs and begin dragging him through the kitchen towards the back door. Emma shoots her a look, waving a hand to get her moving, and Mary Margaret shakes herself into action.

 

They bury him a few feet from the large oak tree in the backyard. Mary Margaret couldn’t stand the thought of knowing he was rotting away underneath the garden she had so loved as a child. It starts to rain as their rolling him into the hastily dug grave and by the time they’re padding down the overturned soil, they’re both soaked to the bone.

 

Emma leans against her shovel and swipes at her face, smearing mud along her forehead. Mary Margaret is shaking and she can’t tell if it’s from fear or her rain soaked clothes at this point. She isn’t sure how long they stand there, summer rain falling in sheets around them, but she knows they need to get moving before Ingrid and Henry get home.

 

“We should go inside and clean up,” Emma says, as if reading her sister’s mind. Mary Margaret nods, taking Emma’s shovel and trailing back to the shed to put them away. Emma follows after her. “Maybe you should head home to clean up. Ingrid and Henry can’t know about this and they’ll be curious if you came over just to take a shower.”

 

It’s a logical point and, though Mary Margaret is loathe to spend the night alone in her house, it’s the smart thing to do. She locks up the shed and turns back to Emma, tugging her into a tight hug. As quickly as the rain had begun, it’s now started to slow until it’s a drizzle over them.

 

“I am so sorry, Emma, and I know it doesn’t make up for anything, but,” Mary Margaret gasps against Emma’s hair, the emotions of the night making it hard to breathe. She knows the tears she’s been pushing down all night aren’t far behind and she’d like to be in the comfort of her own home when they hit. Emma grips her tightly, hand moving across her back in soothing strokes. “Thank you for being my sister.”

 

Emma pulls away then, brushing the hair plastered to Mary Margaret’s forehead away from her eyes.

 

“I wouldn’t want to be anyone else’s,” she assures her.

 

-/-

 

Over the next few weeks, life continues in a way that Emma can only describe as startlingly normal.

 

Despite her initial panic, Mary Margaret pulls herself together and makes it through the rest of the school year. Henry comes home from his last day boasting a stellar report card and more free time than he knows what to do with.  Ingrid makes an offhand comment about the family _nearly_ being back together and suddenly Mary Margaret is packing her things up and moving in for the summer.

 

Emma knows that, despite her calm return to a normal routine, Mary Margaret is cracking on the inside. She can relate to the turmoil, though. Victor had been there because of Mary Margaret but Emma had actually dealt the fatal blow - twice. Yet still, she has to wake up and sell herbs Monday through Friday and follow the sheriff around the station on the weekends.

 

Like there isn’t a dead guy in her backyard.

 

“Hey, mom,” Henry calls from the kitchen one morning. Emma is just about to head out the door, already late to open the herbal shop. She hopes Ruby has a key and makes it there before her. She tugs her hair free of her red leather jacket, still early enough in the morning that there’s a chilly breeze blowing off of the ocean, and returns to the kitchen.

 

“What’s up, kid? Are we out of cereal?” She asks and Henry shakes his head. He’s looking out the window into the garden and Emma frowns, crossing the room to see what’s captured his gaze.

 

“I didn’t know Aunt Ingrid had an apple tree back there,” he comments, nodding his head towards the garden. “I don’t think I’ve seen it before.”

 

Emma’s eyes widen when she sees it. It’s nearly full grown despite the fact that Ingrid has never planted an apple tree. She’d chalk it up to seeds carried on the breeze, except it definitely hadn’t been there a week ago and no tree grows that fast. The spot is immediately recognizable by the still overturned dirt that hasn’t been covered with new grass growth.

 

Emma sucks in a breath and stumbles back from the window. Henry turns to her in concern, but she digs in her pocket and pulls out a twenty dollar bill.

 

“Hey, why don’t you go into town today?” She asks, holding the note out for him. Henry frowns, but takes the money cautiously. “See, if one of your friends wants to hang out or something. You can’t spend all summer cooped up here.”

 

Henry shrugs, not one to question money and the chance at a day spent in town. He dumps his empty bowl in the sink and heads for the front of the house. Emma hears him shuffling around as he tugs on his shoes and the closing of the front door. She waits until she’s sure he’s not coming back before running upstairs to Mary Margaret’s temporary room.

 

“Get up, Mary Margaret,” she commands, shaking her sister a little roughly to rouse her from sleep. She’s not usually much of a late riser, but Emma knows the stress has been making sleep hard for her. “Come on, we have a problem.”

 

Mary Margaret moans and groans a bit, but eventually steps into her slippers and follows Emma back down the stairs. Emma leads her to the same window where she’d stood with Henry and points to the tree. It takes a moment for it to set it and then Mary Margaret gasps, covering her mouth with the tips of her fingers and staring at Emma with wide eyes.

 

“Do you think it’s…?” Mary Margaret asks leadingly.

 

“No tree grows that fast,” Emma sighs. She can see the way her sister’s breathing picks up, her chest rising and falling at a concerning rate. “Hey, don’t panic, alright? Just go meet Ruby at the store for me and I’ll take care of it.”

 

She tugs the keys out of her pocket and pushes them into Mary Margaret’s palm. Her sister nods slowly before she turns to leave the room. Emma turns back to the window, frowning at the looming apple tree. She’d swear it’s growing right in front of her. Mary Margaret stops at the archway between the kitchen and the entrance hall.

 

“What are you going to do?” She asks.

 

“I think Aunt Helga has a chainsaw,” is all Emma gives her. Mary Margaret nods to herself before heading back upstairs to change. Emma zips her coat up against the sudden chill settling over her skin and leaves the house.

 

When she gets to her aunt’s house, just down the street from Ingrid’s, no one is home. Helga must be out with Ingrid doing whatever it is they do all day. Emma isn’t really interested in being included in their business. It’s a little miracle, though, because she also really doesn’t want to involve her aunts in _her_ business.

 

The key to Helga’s shed hangs in the kitchen and Emma finds it easily enough. Her aunt’s black cat - God, she could not make this shit up if she _tried_ \- trails along her feet, rubbing against her legs as she moves about the house. It’s a lucky thing that no one in this town actually worries about robberies or she definitely would have had to pick the lock at Helga’s front door.

 

The chainsaw is leaning up against one of the walls of the shed. It’s one of those things that Emma just remembered seeing it when she was a kid. She doesn’t really know, or _want_ to know, why Helga needs a chainsaw.

 

By the time she gets back to the house, Mary Margaret has already left for the shop and it’s officially just Emma in the house. Well, Emma and whatever the hell might be left of Victor under that apple tree. The sun has risen enough and now her leather jacket is sweltering. Emma is loathe to remove the bit of armor, but would prefer not to get heatstroke. She tosses the garment on the picnic table and starts the chainsaw.

 

She starts taking out branches first. No matter how much she’d like to just topple the whole damn thing in one fell swoop, it’s grown tall enough that doing so might cause damage to the fence around the yard or the garden behind her.

 

Emma is taking a break from the work, sweating right through her white tank top, and chugging water like she’s spent the last month in a desert, when someone calls out to her.

 

“Emma Swan.” Emma wipes her hand over her mouth, removing leftover moisture and hiding the involuntary smile at the familiar voice. He has dreadful timing. “With power tools. Hm, I don’t know if I should be frightened or aroused.”

 

Killian Jones leans against Ingrid’s idyllic white picket fence and grins at her. He’s somehow still sporting his own leather jacket and can’t possibly be cool enough in this heat. Yet, he looks like a smug mythical being. She hates him a little.

 

“Don’t do anything to upset me,” Emma warns, hefting the chainsaw menacingly with a smirk. “And you’ll have no reason to be frightened.”

 

Killian takes the response as an invitation and unhooks the garden gate to join her in the backyard. She sets the chainsaw back down, laying across the picnic table harmlessly. She leans back against the table as well, taking another swig from her bottle of water. She’s seen a lot more of him in the past weeks and, oddly enough, she’s not even really complaining about it. Emma would even, begrudgingly, call them friends.

 

“I suppose I’ll stick to aroused then,” he comments, once he’s close enough, and Emma snorts nearly causing the water in her mouth to come out her nose. He joins her, leaning against the table, and eyes her project. The tree is terribly mangled now, large branches littering the yard and bright red apples dotted through the grass. Emma’s stomach turns as Killian frowns at the mess. “And what has the tree done to offend you, love?”

 

“Just wasn’t supposed to be growing back here, is all,” she shrugs. The tree punctuates her statement but suddenly dropping another apple as a breeze sweeps through. The red delicious hits the ground with a thud. “I’m more of a Granny Smith girl.”

 

Killian hums in response to this, his attention turning from the tree to her face. Emma can feel him studying her and turns as well, meeting his gaze head on.

 

“You alright, Swan?” He asks finally, tilting his head to the side. She’s actually a tiny bit touched by the concern in his voice. She’s sure her own lack of sleep is evident on her face and she swears the past few weeks have aged her. She shrugs in response, turning away from him.

 

“Fine,” she responds, a little curtly. Taking a step away from him, Emma hefts the chainsaw up off the table, taking care to keep it away from both herself and Killian. “I should get back to it, though.”

 

Killian steps forward, fingers landing softly on the bare skin of her arm. She looks up in surprise at the tender touch and frowns.

 

“Whatever it is,” he says quietly, as if he’s trying not to startle her away. “If you need to talk about it, I’m glad to lend an ear.”

 

Emma wants to say a lot of things. She wants to remind him that, despite his chumminess, she’s only known him for about a little under two months. Insist that nothing is wrong and have him leave it at that. She _still_ wants to know why exactly he’s kept himself docked in their shitty little town for so long, why he’d arrived in the first place.

 

“Why are you here?” is what comes out instead.

 

“I,” Killian starts, surprised at the change. He fumbles for a moment. “You weren’t at the shop and I wanted to say hello.”

 

“You came all the way down here just to say hi?” Emma asks, genuine surprise at the simple answer. There’s that tiny hint of being touched again, a warmth spreading outwards through her chest. Killian just keeps surprising her.

 

“Aye,” he nods, lifting his hand off of her arm to scratch behind his ear. She tilts her head, endeared and curious at the sudden appearance of the nervous tic. “I thought you might be hungry and I’d planned to invite you to lunch.”

 

Emma blanches for a moment, staring at him in surprise as he meets her gaze unashamed. The weight of the chainsaw in her arms is a reminder of the tree and she turns her gaze to it. It seems insane to think of a tree as sinister, but that’s exactly how it feels as it looms over them. She has to finish this tonight.

 

A sudden wave of guilt washes over her as she realizes she’s considering the invitation. It’s not dinner or even drinks, there’s quite possibly no motive behind it. Although, Killian has never been anything but forthcoming with his interest in her, never pushing her or taking more than she’s willing to give. Which, up until now, had been next to nothing.

 

Except, apparently, lunch.

 

“I, uh,” she starts, swallowing against the sudden dryness of her throat and avoiding his gaze. “I really have to finish this today.”

 

“Rain check, then,” Kilian says easily, stepping away from her. His voice betrays nothing, but one glance at his face and Emma can read it all there. Confusion and a bit of hurt and, God, she knows nothing good can come from letting him in. There’d be no fairness in involving him in her mess. It doesn’t stop the sudden want to just tell him, tell him everything. Curses and heartbreaks and dead men buried under the ground they stand on.

 

He’s pulling away, though, reading her need for space easily. It’s only been a matter of six weeks since she met him, but he’s surprisingly good at that. Reading what she needs and then giving it to her. He hesitates at the gate, fiddling with the latch.

 

“Let me know if you want to talk about whatever isn’t letting you sleep,” he calls out as a goodbye before tugging the gate closed behind him and continuing down the street. Emma sighs and turns back to the tree, starting the saw up with a renewed vigor.

 

-/-

 

When Mary Margaret gets home, Emma is sprawled out across the wooden floor. Her tank top is covered in splotches of dirt and her hair sticks to her neck with sweat. She sighs, lowering herself gently to sit next to her in the entryway.

 

“Tree gone?” She asks. Emma hums in the affirmative and Mary Margaret sighs in relief, dropping backwards onto the wood slats. The shop keys dig into her hip and she fishes them out, dangling them in the air over Emma’s prone form. “Your keys.”

 

Emma snatches them out of the air and groans.

 

“Where’s Henry?” Mary Margaret asks finally. He’d stopped by the shop earlier to see his mom and had been concerned when he learned she’d stayed home. Mary Margaret had assured him everything was fine, though, and that he didn’t need to worry.

 

“He called,” Emma explains, burying a yawn behind her forearm. Both her hands are covered in dirt as well. Mary Margaret is regretting wearing her nice white top now that she’s joined her sister on the floor. “He’s going to a friend’s house for dinner.”

 

“It’s good that he has friends,” Mary Margaret points out and Emma nods, her hair shuffling against the floorboards.

 

“I’m just glad the town hasn’t made him a pariah,” she comments, pushing herself off of the hardwood and into a sitting position. Mary Margaret follows suit. “Henry’s so good with people I really think they’d have to try to hate him. He’s a lot like you that way.”

 

Mary Margaret offers a soft smile at the compliment. She eases herself to her feet and holds a hand out to Emma. Taking her hand gratefully, Emma uses it to leverage herself to her feet and brushes her hands against her equally dirty jeans. Mary Margaret wonders if she’d gone as far as to dig the tree up at the root. More importantly, she wonders if it will make a difference.

 

“I take it the aunts aren’t home yet, either?” She asks, following Emma into the kitchen where she digs a bottle of water from the fridge. She shakes her head as she lifts the plastic to her lips, taking large swigs. “Did you return Helga’s chainsaw?”

 

Emma nods in response, still gulping down the water. Mary Margaret frowns, pressing her fingertips to her lips. Emma finishes off the bottle of water and it crinkles in her grip before she deposits it in the recycling. She turns and leans back against the kitchen sink, looking at Mary Margaret who shakes her head, fingers still hovering near her mouth.

 

“What are we gonna do?” She asks. Emma crosses her arms, frowning. “Something about this isn’t right.”

 

“Right now, I am gonna take a shower,” she sighs, pulling at the strap of her tanktop where it sticks to her skin with dried sweat. “Maybe you can start dinner. I don’t want Ingrid to sniff out that something is wrong. We’re lucky Henry was the one to notice the tree and not her.”

 

Sighing, Mary Margaret nods. Emma pats her shoulder gently as she passes by, heading upstairs to shower. She digs through the fridge and cabinets, looking for something to cook, before settling on a pasta dish. Her hands are shaking too much to allow for anything else.

 

She can hear it when the water shuts off upstairs and, after a few minutes, the sound of Emma coming downstairs. There’s a knock at the door when Emma reaches the bottom few steps and Mary Margaret frowns down at the pot of boiling water as her sister answers the door.

 

“David, hey,” Emma greets cautiously and Mary Margaret’s stomach rolls. She hears the sound of workboots against the wood floor and nearly burns herself in her distraction. “What’s up?”

 

“I actually need to talk to Mary Margaret,” David explains. “She mentioned she was staying here over the summer.”

 

“Oh,” Emma responds, voice perked up into something almost teasing, but Mary Margaret can read David’s mood from here. He’s tense and his tone is a little brusque. Something’s wrong. Emma continues, unaware of her sister’s turmoil, “Of course. I’ll grab her.”

 

Emma pops into the kitchen and Mary Margaret whirls around with wide eyes. “He knows.”

 

Emma’s eyebrows raise in surprise and she shoots a glance towards where David waits by the front door. She crosses the room, pulling Mary Margaret as far from the open archway as possible.

 

“What do you mean he knows?” Emma demands quietly as they huddle in the far corner of the room. Mary Margaret resists the urge to bite her nails. “How could he know?”

 

“I don’t know,” Mary Margaret hisses. “But I can just feel it. He knows something! Emma, I don’t think I can lie to him.”

 

“Of course you can,” Emma insists. “David looks at you like you’re made of sunshine and rainbows. He’ll buy anything you tell him, okay? So, just go out there and answer his questions.”

 

Mary Margaret lingers for a moment longer, shooting looks towards the archway. Emma had understood her statement as not thinking Mary Margaret could tell a convincing lie. It’s deeper than that, though. She isn’t sure she _can_ lie to the man. She’s never tried before, never actually had the need to before, but something in her is telling her she’s not going to be able to.

 

Emma nudges her and Mary Margaret starts walking, stopping to turn the heat down on the stove, and Emma trails after her. David’s eyes light up when Mary Margaret appears around the corner but the pinch in his brow doesn’t disappear. Still, she tries for a smile and finds it surprisingly easy to do.

 

“Hey, Charming,” she offers lightly, trying to earn a smile. David doesn’t disappoint, chuckling and ducking his head at the occasional nickname. “Nice of you to stop by. Emma said you wanted to talk to me.”

 

“Uh, yeah,” he sighs and just like that it’s back to business. There’s a softness to it now, though, and Mary Margaret chews at the inside of her lip. She resists the urge to lift her fingers towards her face, aware of her tell tale nervous gesture, interlocking her hands behind her back. “Dr. Whale has been missing for a few weeks. We were thinking he might have just left for a while, but I got a request that I investigate it as a missing person’s case.”

 

“Oh, dear,” Mary Margaret sighs, the dismay in her voice not even manufactured. She catches Emma lingering near the doorway in her peripheral and takes a step towards David. “I haven’t seen Victor around in a while, now that you mention it.”

 

David nods. “I started asking around and people mentioned you and him seemed close.”

 

“Not really,” she frowns, annoyed at the rumor mill. A man near-stalking you does not close friends make. She shrugs and decides to offer David a half truth, her stomach rolling at the thought of telling a lie. “Victor took an interest, I guess, but I told him I wasn’t interested. I just assumed he’d decided to back off.”

 

The words taste bitter on her tongue and David takes a step towards her, leaning down a bit to meet her eye. Mary Margaret shifts under the scrutiny and he places his hand gently on her shoulder. The thin fabric of her top does nothing to quell the warmth of his hand and she represses a shiver.

 

“Are you sure that’s it?” He asks and Mary Margaret nods. “If there’s something going on, if you’re in some kind of trouble, please tell me. I can help, Mary Margaret.”

 

Emma rounds the corner, frowning at the scene and crossing her arms. Mary Margaret backs out of David’s space and averts her eyes. His hand hovers in the air where her shoulder had been for a moment before it falls uselessly to his side.

 

“No one in this house has seen Victor Whale in weeks,” she offers lamely. David drops back on his heels, sighing at the response.

 

“I sincerely hope not,” he responds. He bids them both a goodnight before heading out of the house. Mary Margaret frowns as Emma’s arms come around her shoulders, hugging her from the side.

 

“He thinks we’re involved,” Mary Margaret says quietly, the thought stinging more than she’s proud of. Emma’s arms squeeze a little tighter and she hears the pot in the kitchen boil over onto the burners. It’ll put the flame out if she doesn’t go deal with it. “How’s he ever gonna look at me the same way?”

 

Emma tucks her face into Mary Margaret’s shoulder and doesn’t respond.

 

-/-

 

David begins a full on investigation into Victor’s disappearance which, of course, Emma is barred from helping with. Due to, you know, her being sort of a suspect. In fairness, it’s really got more to do with Mary Margaret being a suspect. Which is what really irritates Emma.

 

“Come on, David,” Emma had pleaded as she followed behind him on the sidewalk. She’d caught him on his walk to work and had seen the way he’d clammed up upon spotting her. “You can’t actually think _Mary Margaret_ , of all people, had something to do with Whale being missing.”

 

David had huffed and turned to her with a quick “I hope not” before suggesting she take the day off. Emma had nearly stomped her foot, like a fucking child, in annoyance. She’d settled for glaring daggers at his back until he disappeared beyond a corner. Mary Margaret had barely left her bed in the days following David’s visit, let alone the house. She’s sure that, if David had come to their house to question her, the rest of the town needed very little to go on to believe she’d killed Victor.

 

“I don’t know about you, Swan, but I for one usually try to avoid spats with law enforcement,” Killian comments, coming up beside her on the sidewalk. She’d been too angry to even notice his approach and tries not to think about the way her shoulders relax a bit at the sound of his voice.

 

“Now’s not a good time, Killian,” she sighs, turning to continue back down the way she’d come. Clearly, they wouldn’t be needing her expert filing skills at the sheriff’s station today.

 

“Actually, it sounded like you’ve just been given the day off,” he points out, walking down the street with her. “Which, correct me if I’m wrong, makes you a free bird for the day.”

 

Emma bites back her amusement to raise an eyebrow at him. “Free bird?”

 

“Emma,” he sighs, halting and grasping her elbow lightly to turn her towards him. He’s giving her a serious look now and she shifts uncomfortably. Teasing, flirty Killian she can deal with. Serious Killian always unseats her a bit. His eyes are the same color of the ocean visible behind him. Emma almost swears she can see the color shifting, as if the same waves that crash against the shore move through his gaze.

 

He continues, “You don’t have to tell me what’s going on, but it seems hard to deny it’s something certainly. I’m offering a momentary escape, if you’d like it.”

 

“Is that a come on?” She asks dryly.

 

“On the contrary,” Killian grins, leaning towards her a bit. Emma lets him. “I’m offering you an outing on my ship.”

 

“Oh, your _boat_?” Emma asks innocuously, aware of how much it will bug him. He lets out a breath through his nose and gives her a tired look, but nods. She glances down the street, it’s still early but shops are beginning to open. The walk home is suddenly extremely unappealing and everyone expects her to be gone all day anyway. If something happens she’ll have her phone.

 

“Okay,” she acquiesces, offering him a closed lipped smile. Her cheeks hurt at the brightness of it and she thinks it’s her first real one in days. “Lead the way, then, Captain.”

 

He waves her in the direction of the docks with a flourish of his prosthetic and a half bow. Emma shakes her head at him and follows the direction of his arm, crossing the street. Killian follows behind her, hand landing on her lower back for only a moment, a faint press of contact, before he’s pulling it away. She misses the contact as soon as it’s gone.

 

Killian is a presence in and of himself. He’s not the type to disappear into the background, always ready with a quip or salacious comment. He moves in dramatic sweeps and elaborate movements. If Mary Margaret’s grace is reminiscent of a fairytale princess, Emma can only think of Killian’s mannerisms as those of a victorian pirate. A comparison which, she’s certain, he would preen at. So, she doesn’t voice that aloud.

 

But, if Killian on land is something to behold, Killian on his boat is nothing short of astounding. He moves about it with grace and knowledge and Emma understands, suddenly, the insistence of calling it a _ship_ . It’s not particularly large, big enough to live on, but hardly the biggest in the marina. It doesn’t look like a _ship_ , particularly, but Killian makes you believe it’s something grand.

 

“Where are we going?” Emma asks as he untethers it from the dock and starts the engine. He eases the boat away from the wooden planks of the dock and through the other boats.

 

“Why, to the open sea, of course,” he tells her. Emma rolls her eyes fondly and steps carefully across the boat. She lives in a seaside town, sure, but she’s never been one to frequent seaworthy vessels. She’s much more comfortable in a car or plane.

 

“Well, that’s helpful,” she comments once she’s reached him at the wheel. He offers her a smirk. “How is being trapped at sea with you supposed to help me again?”

 

“Some people, present company included, find the ocean calming, love,” Killian explains. Emma hums dubiously in response. “Plus, I have rum.”

 

“Now you’re talking,” she grins, crossing the deck again to take a seat on one of the benches. Killian keeps to his promise. They sail in a peaceful silence, nothing but the engine and the water rushing past them, until they can’t see the shore anymore. They’re a spec in the endless blue of the sea.

 

He cuts the engine and Emma has to admit, between the warm sun above them and the quiet lapping of the waves, it’s pretty damn calming. The padding on the bench shifts as Killian settles next to her. They’re sitting in the middle of the ocean, but the breeze picks up and Emma knows the smell of salt water is coming from the man next to her. It’s not unusual for everything in a seaside town to exude the smell.

 

It’s specific to Killian, though, like it’s a part of him.

 

“How’s it working, Swan?” He asks quietly, startling out of her thoughts. She shifts her gaze, knows she’s been caught staring at him, and her cheeks heatt a bit. She hopes the sun beating down on them is enough of an excuse.

 

“Uh, good, yeah. Very relaxing,” she nods. “Do you do this often by yourself?”

 

“Now and again,” Killian shrugs. “Good to get her out in the open when I can. This is the longest I’ve stayed in port in a while.”

 

“Really?” Emma asks, surprise coloring her voice. He nods in the affirmative. “Why?”

 

“Ah, that’s a tale for another time perhaps,” he says, fingers coming up to that spot behind his ear he favors. “The short of it is, I needed a change of scenery. I’ve spent the past few years skirting along coastal towns and islands. I mostly just pulled into port to resupply.”

 

“So, why stick around here for so long?” She asks on a frown. He shifts against the seat, vinyl padding squeaking against his jeans.

 

“The extraordinary cuisine,” he says easily. “Have you had Granny’s lasagna? Best in the world, I’d wager.”

 

It’s a deflection, Emma can tell. She can see it his posture, the flippant way he says the words, the way he won’t meet her gaze. She considers challenging it, pressing for the truth. But he doesn’t seem the type of person to belong in one place, the type to get restless, and she wonders if it’s worth working to figure out all of his secrets if he could up and leave the next day.

 

Instead, she shifts on the seat, turning her body away from him and out towards the water. “Okay, you win. I definitely feel calmed.”

 

“I told you, Swan,” Killian grins, lacking the smugness Emma expected her words to bring out. “I’ve come across few ills the sea can’t fix in my day.”

 

-/-

 

Mary Margaret isn’t proud of her behavior over the last fews days. She has things to do, a whole new school year to plan for, meetings to attend. None of which accommodate lying in bed heartsick because a man she has a schoolgirl crush on kind of thinks she committed a murder.

 

Although, if there were ever a reason.

 

Still, Emma heads off to work with said man and Mary Margaret decides enough is enough. She reheats the leftover pancakes Emma had left behind while Henry tells her all about what he’s been doing over the summer break. He’s growing like a weed and Mary Margaret swears he’s a foot taller than when he arrived nearly a year prior.

 

“Well, look who made it out of bed,” Ingrid comments with a soft smile as she comes in from the backyard. “Are you that terribly overworked during the school year, dear? I hope you’re feeling more rested.”

 

Mary Margaret turns in her chair at the kitchen table with a smile and nods at her. Ingrid crosses the kitchen and hefts the large basket in her arms onto the kitchen counter. Mary Margaret’s smile becomes more pinched as she watches Ingrid lift an apple from the basket and begin to wash it in the sink.

 

“Where are those from?” She asks, dreading the answer.

 

“Oh, that apple tree in the backyard,” Ingrid explains, picking up another apple and running it under the water. “I hadn’t noticed it, but it seems as if it sprouted overnight. Magical soil, huh, Mary Margaret?”

 

She accompanies the comment with a secretive wink. Mary Margaret nearly tips her chair over in her haste to cross the kitchen. She snatches the apple out of her aunt’s hand and tosses it and the other washed one back in the basket. She marches the whole thing back outside and dumps them in the compost pile, tossing the basket aside and shivering.

 

“Mary Margaret,” Ingrid gasps, surprised at the sudden behavior. Mary Margaret curls into herself a bit, wrapping her cardigan tightly around herself. “What has gotten into you?”

 

“Sorry,” Mary Margaret squeaks, ducking her head and squeezing back past Ingrid into the kitchen. “Just those apples aren’t good, okay? Trust me.”

 

She picks her plate up and scrapes her half eaten pancakes into the trash before depositing the dishes in the sink. Henry watches her with wide eyes as she flits around the kitchen collecting her things. Ingrid is still standing in the back doorway, arms folded over her chest and a calculating gaze on her face.

 

“I, uh, I have a curriculum meeting today, so I’ll be back in a few hours,” Mary Margaret offers, tugging her tote bag over her shoulder. “Just, please don’t eat the apples from that tree, okay?”

 

She nearly runs from the house, but forces a calm into her steps she doesn’t feel as she reaches the front door, slips on her shoes.  She hadn’t even noticed the tree had regrown and, clearly, neither had Emma or else it would have been nothing but a stump by now. Ingrid had commented that it had grown overnight and she’s wondering if it had, indeed, done just that.

 

Magical soil. God, she’s going to have a heart attack before all this is over. If it ever will be over. She feels like she’s standing in quicksand and the more she tries to convince herself that everything will be fine, the more she sinks. Eventually she’s going to drown.

 

The meeting with the other teachers and members of upper staff is nearly unbearable, just as Mary Margaret had suspected it’d be. The minute she shows up at the door the whispering starts. She wonders why no one in this town learned to actually whisper. Don’t they know the whole room _isn’t_ supposed to be able to hear you? Not that it matters, it’s no worse than Mary Margaret had imagined. None of these people thought terribly highly of her to begin with. Regina, the principal, turns her dark and judgey gaze upon her from the front of the room.

 

It doesn’t even compare with the way David had looked at her.

 

It takes hours of debating and discussing. Usually, Mary Margaret would be more vocal in these meetings, but today it feels like the best course of action is to keep her mouth shut. She can develop her syllabus better on her own anyway. She scribbles a note across a sheet of paper to stop by the school supply store. It’s always better if she gets her start of the year classroom decorations early.

 

It’s well into the afternoon when she finally leaves the stuffy building. Lord knows the school isn’t going to spend the money on air conditioning when it’s only teachers in the building. The breeze blowing off the water settles a welcome chill over her warm skin. There’s a storm blowing in slowly over the horizon, a looming darkness nearly at the edge of the town. Mary Margaret hopes it will make the dry heat a bit more bearable. The wind shifts, suddenly. It blows a little harsher from the opposite direction, the comfortable chill turning ominous as it sets goosebumps over her arms and sends a shiver down her spine.

 

“Emma,” Mary Margaret breathes, her gaze pulled in the direction of the marina. Then, she takes off running in the opposite direction. Her feet pull her towards her destination, towards the only person she trusts to help her with whatever is wrong.

 

“Mary Margaret,” David says in surprise when she appears in the doorway. A few deputies mill about and shoot her confused and even suspicious glances. She pays them no mind as she crosses to the desk David is bent over. “What are you doing here?”

 

“Something’s wrong,” she insists. She should be second guessing showing up here, should have gotten her aunts, but David meets her eye and she knows she made the right decision. “You have to come with me, please!”

 

She slips her hand into his and tugs gently. David gives no resistance as he follows her out of the station doors.

 

-/-

 

Emma spends more time out at sea with Killian than she means to. It’s nice, though. Her annoyance at David and anger at the universe for putting her sister in this situation have melted away. They’re festering in the back of her mind, of course, and she knows the moment she’s back on dry land they’ll return. In the meantime, Killian keeps her entertained with stories of the towns he’s visited.

 

It’s simple - something she’s finding to be in short supply lately.

 

Dark clouds drift towards them around noon and Killian calls an end to the outing. He looks genuinely disappointed at the end of their time together and it stirs something warm in her chest. He steers the _ship_ (Emma’s warming to the descriptor) back into the marina and tethers it. He climbs off first, holding out a hand to help her step down. The moment her boot hits the wooden dock, Emma is overcome with a sense of foreboding.

 

“Are you alright?” Killian asks, frowning as he senses her change in demeanor. She shakes the dark feeling from her body, bouncing a little on her toes and smiles at him. He watches on in amusement.

 

“Yeah, just getting my land legs again,” she offers. He seems to accept this, nodding at her. “Thanks for this, Killian. It helped.”

 

“I’m glad, love,” he smiles, soft and warm, and it stirs that same warmth within her again, branching outwards from her chest and sending tingles over the nerve endings in her hands. She’s powerless to return the smile with one of her own, ducking her head slightly from his gaze. “You know where to find me should you fancy another outing.”

 

Emma nods in agreement, actually considering taking him up on the offer. She should head home, they won’t be expecting her from work for a few hours but the sense of danger is still lingering, heavy on her shoulders. Still, she lingers a moment longer in Killian’s space. He seems to notice her reluctance, lifts a hand to push a lock of hair behind her shoulder.

 

“If you should like to stay,” he starts slowly, trailing off as he looks up from the ends of her hair to meet her gaze. It’s a surprise to find that she should, actually, very much like to stay.

 

“I can’t,” she sighs, breaking the gaze and looking to the looming storm clouds that have followed them to the shore. Killian nods, but Emma feels the need to explain. “I just have to stop in town before I head home and I don’t want to be missing for too long in case Henry needs something.”

 

“Of course, love,” he says understandingly. “You should head home to your boy. We have plenty of time.”

 

Emma’s breath catches a little at that. As a matter of fact, she’d certainly like to hope they have plenty of time. She nods instead of trying to form anymore words. Turning away from him, she bids him goodbye and heads back up the road into town. She stops into the market to pick up some groceries that Ingrid had asked her to buy and by the time she reaches the street again, the storm clouds are hovering ominously on the horizon.

 

Shaking off the sudden onslaught of chills, Emma heads down the street towards Ingrid’s house. She ducks through a few alleys, uninterested in the stares of townspeople as she passes by. There’s a tickle at the back of her neck, though, the feeling of eyes on her even in this empty space between the library and the ice cream shop.

 

“Hello?” Emma calls, turning around in search of whoever is watching. No one responds or steps into the alley, but that sense of foreboding only seems to press in on her, like a physical thing. Hot and suffocating as it presses down on her shoulders. “Come on, I am so not in the mood today, so either come out or leave me the fuck alone.”

 

“Well, now, I suppose it wouldn’t be very nice of me to deny a lady her request,” a voice comments, bitter and low, as it’s owner steps around the corner. He’s older than her aunts but holds himself with the pride of a cocky young man. “Then again, you’re not much of a lady, are you?”

 

“Mr. Nolan,” Emma greets, gripping the paper bag in her arms a little tighter. Dealing with David is like dealing with a new puppy, he has a bit of a bite to him at times but he’s otherwise one of the nicest men she’s come across. His father, on the other hand, is a different kind of danger.

 

_Beware the Nolan men_ , Ingrid’s voice whispers in Emma’s memory. _Nothing is more dangerous than an unpredictable man with too much pride_.

 

“I was actually hoping to run into that awful sister of yours,” he comments flippantly, advancing on her. There’s an opening behind her onto the next street, so she’s not totally cornered if he tries something. They’re in the center of the alley, though, so Emma has a ways to run which would give him a chance to catch up. “But I suppose you’ll do.”

 

“Do for what?” Emma bites, taking a half step backwards. George notices the movement, sneering in pleasure at what he thinks of as fear. She holds her chin up, unwilling to cower in front of the man, refusing to give him the satisfaction of alarming her.

 

“You Swan women,” he grunts, ignoring her question. “You think you can just do whatever you want. You leave, you come back, you wreak havoc. Just because everyone is too afraid to do what needs to be done.”

 

Emma feels her heartbeat pick up, thudding nearly painfully against her chest at his words. Her finger nails rip through the paper in her hand, small punctures in the brown bag. Still, she holds herself as proudly as he does.

 

“If you’re through monologuing, I’d like to get home to my kid,” she offers dryly. George’s eyes flash dangerously and Emma has to repress the instinct to step back from him again.

 

“No. No, see, Ms. Swan, everyone else might be afraid to do what’s necessary,” he practically hisses, close enough in her space that she can hear him clear as day. “But I assure you, I am not.”

 

Emma spots the glint of metal before she can anticipate it. George’s hand comes up, pocket knife aimed and coming down towards her in an unskilled slashing motion. She barely manages to stumble backwards away from him, her surprise dulling her reactions a half second. The tip of the knife comes dangerously close to her cheek and George is undeterred, advancing again.

 

“Hey!” A voice calls at the other end of the alley, heavy footfalls echoing between the buildings. It startles George and Emma manages to knock him to the ground. Killian reaches her, hand grasping at her arm as he looks her over.

 

“Are you alright?” He asks panting slightly, from the run or the fear Emma can’t be sure. She allows his hand to roam from her arm to her shoulder up to her face, checking her over for unseen injury.

 

“Yeah,” she bites. “Yeah, I’m fine. George here just wanted to show me his new swiss army knife.”

 

Killian spins to face the man and Emma is startled to find him back on his feet. His face has gone red and he swipes out at Killian with the knife this time. Emma tries to react but before she can, Killian has deflected the man and knocked the knife from his hand. It clatters against the concrete and Killian has George pressed into a dumpster.

 

Which is, of course, when David rounds the corner.

 

-/-

 

“Hey, Mary Margaret, can you slow down for a minute?” David asks as she continues to pull him down Main Street. The clouds are rolling in quicker now and there’s distant thunder over the surf, but they haven’t broken yet. “At least tell me where we’re going.”

 

“No, there’s no time. Something’s wrong!” She calls back. In truth, she doesn’t know quite where she’s being pulled to. She just knows she has to get there, immediately. “Can you just trust me?”

 

David’s step falters behind her for a second and she think she may have made him fall. His hand slips from her and she whirls around to face him. This is exactly the kind of stopping they needed to not do.

 

“I- of course I trust you,” he says, frowning at her. They don’t have time for this, but her stomach flips a little at the way he’s looking at her. She falters, body half turned to continue running, but stalled at his words.

 

“You do?” She asks, quietly. David nods immediately, his eyes trained on hers, and Mary Margaret swallows. She reaches for his hand again, sliding her palm against his easily. “Good, then follow me.”

 

He does, without anymore delays this time. Mary Margaret stalls in the center of town, the library rising high above the other buildings. She doesn’t really even know what she’s looking for, maybe this was a fool’s errand. Emma was always much better at the whole intuition thing than her.

 

She hears a shout, pulling her out of her thoughts, and sees a familiar figure in black dart down the alley between the library and the ice cream shop. Indicating the spot to David, Mary Margaret takes off down the sidewalk again. David pulls up in front of her when they reach the alley, stalling her back with a look.

 

“What the hell is going on?” He calls, once he’s in full view of the alley. Mary Margaret only a hesitates a second before following him, eyes widening at the scene before her. Emma is holding a paper bag of groceries at the end of the alley and, in front of her, Killian Jones has George Nolan pinned to a dumpster.

 

“Sheriff, perfect timing as always,” Killian comments. Mary Margaret ignores him, along with George’s angry shouts towards David about arresting Killian and Emma, and runs the distance to her sister. Her hands squeeze her shoulders as she checks her for injury. Other than the startled expression under her brave face, Emma seems unharmed by whatever happened.

 

“Are you alright? What happened?” Mary Margaret asks, taking the groceries from Emma. Her sister indicates towards something on the ground and Mary Margaret follows the path of her fingers, eye catching on the knife.

 

“Old George here decided to try to ruin my day,” Emma explains. David looks between the knife and his father, still pinned to the dumpster, with wide eyes. “Killian, I think it’s safe to let him go.”

 

He does so, reluctantly, backing away from the man. George straightens himself, spitting mad and still grousing to David about the way he’s being treated. “I demand you arrest them for assault.”

 

“Might want to check your facts there, mate,” Killian bites. David holds his hand up at him, giving him a meaningful look, and Killian raises his hand in defense before backing off.

 

“What happened here?” David asks, helping his father away from the dumpster. Mary Margaret raises her eyebrows at him, uninterested in hearing whatever lie George has to spin.

 

“These _delinquents_ assaulted me!” George insists.

 

“Why did you have your knife out?” David presses, picking the offending object up carefully, by the blade.

 

“Self-defense,” George stutters out haltingly. “I will not stand here and be questioned by my own son!”

 

Mary Margaret catches David falter for a moment. His shoulders hunch up and his eyes drift shut as he heaves a heavy breath. Like a flash, he’s back to professional and polished, turning to Emma and Killian.

 

“And you two are saying he came after you with the knife?” He asks.

 

“He followed me here from the market,” Emma explains, shooting a look towards George. He tries to bite out some sort of defense, but David holds his hand up to shush him. “Ranting about not being afraid of doing what needs to be done. He came at me with the knife, luckily Killian got here when he did.”

 

“Lucky,” George growls. “More like planned, to entrap me!”

 

David turns away and Mary Margaret swears she catches him roll his eyes at his father as he folds the knife up, pocketing it. She supresses a smirk and adjusts the bag in her arms to cover the twitching of her mouth.

 

“Well, it’s two against one, I guess,” David shrugs, as if he has no choice in the matter. He pulls his cuffs from his back pocket and dangles them in the air. “Do I need to use these or are you planning to come down to the station willingly?”

 

George’s eyes go wide and he backs away from his son. David shrugs to himself agaian and grabs his father gently by the arms, twisting him around to place the cuffs on his wrists.

 

“Selfish ingrate,” George seethes and David doesn’t even bat an eye in response. “After everything I’ve done for you.”

 

He yanks the cuffs a little to make sure they’re in place and commands George to wait where he is before crossing back to the other three. He meets Mary Margaret’s eye and she smiles gratefully at him before he turns his attention to Emma and Killian.

 

“Are you both alright?” He asks. “Any injuries?”

 

Emma shakes her head and Killian doesn’t speak up. David nods once before returning to his father. George’s face has gone so red Mary Margaret fears he may be moments away from popping a blood vessel. She doesn’t envy David the walk back to the station.

 

“David,” she calls softly, just before he can walk off. He turns, raising an eyebrow at her. “Thanks. For trusting me.”

 

David nods before leading his father out of the alley. They’ll have to walk back down Main Street to get back to the sheriff’s station and she’s pretty sure David Nolan arresting his father will be the talk of the town tomorrow. She hopes the situation won’t cost him his job in the future election.

 

“What is going on _there_?” Emma asks, a little smugness to her voice. Mary Margaret can tell she’s still a little shaken, but clearly not so shaken she can resist teasing her sister. She adjusts the bag, switching it between arms, and avoids Emma’s eye. Her gaze comes to fall on Killian instead and she raises an eyebrow.

 

“I could ask you the same thing,” she points out. “Where have you been all day?”

 

“I…,” Emma falters, mouth wide as she searches for a response. Killian ducks his head behind her, but Mary Margaret can still see the smirk he’s trying to hide. She’d love to relish in the opportunity to unsettle her sister a bit more, but they have other worries at the moment.

 

“Nevermind,” she sighs, waving her hand to dismiss the topic. “We have bigger problems. I have to tell you something.”

 

She shoots a wary glance at Killian, but Emma shakes her head. “Just tell me.”

 

“The tree is back,” Mary Margaret offers simply. Emma’s eyes go wide and she can see the fear that flashes there. “Ingrid was picking apples from it this morning and I just sort of freaked out on her.”

 

She opens her mouth to respond, but seems to lose whatever she was going to say. Instead she runs a hand through her hair and looks around the alley, her gaze never quite landing on anything. Mary Margaret is familiar with the look, she’s trying to come up with a plan. The next time she speaks, though, it’s directed at Killian.

 

“Why are you standing like that?” Emma demands and he startles at the suddenness of it. His eyes flit between the two of them, trying to come up with a response. Mary Margaret notices, for the first time, the way Killian is curled to the right, his arm pressed tightly to his hip. Emma frowns. “You’re hurt. You are such a liar, why didn’t you tell David?”

 

“It’s nothing the sheriff need worry about,” Killian insists. “Merely a scratch.”

 

Emma is already pushing his arm away from where he has it pressed firmly to his side. His shirt is torn above his hip bone, blood nearly invisible against the black material. Emma lifts it and Mary Margaret gasps softly, the sound falling unintentionally from her lips. It’s not a stab wound, per say, but it’s certainly more than a scratch.

 

“That scratch, you big fat lying liar,” Emma starts and Killian raises an eyebrow in amusement at the insult. “Is evidence that George attacked us. We have to tell David.”

 

“Don’t really fancy a trip to the sheriff’s station, love,” Killian refutes, pushing her hands away from the wound. “It’s fine, honestly.”

 

Emma groans and spins back to Mary Margaret. She offers Emma a weary smile and shakes her head at the man’s antics. Emma manages to breathe out a chuckle.

 

“Can you take those home? I’ll meet you back at the house and we’ll deal with the tree,” she promises, sweeping a hand out towards Killian who seems affronted at the gesture. “I have to deal with this.”

 

Killian grumbles behind her, but Emma shoots him a look and he shuts up. It doesn’t stop him from looking up to the heavens as if they’ll offer him guidance when Emma turns back to Mary Margaret. She chuckles and nods at Emma, adjusting the bag against her hip and heading back out of the alley while Emma scolds Killian.

 

Mary Margaret carries the bag back to the house where Ingrid is in the kitchen, chopping up plants from the garden for drying out before they’ll package them for sale in the store. She sets the knife down as Mary Margaret comes in, placing the paper bag on the kitchen table.

 

“Where’s your sister? I asked her to pick those up,” Ingrid points out.

 

“She got caught up with something,” Mary Margaret explains, pulling things from the bag to put them in their proper places around the kitchen. She’s amazed at how much she remembers from stocking the kitchen as a girl. “She asked me to bring them home for her. Where’s Henry?”

 

“Up in his room reading,” Ingrid says fondly, returning to chopping the plant in front of her. The smell of fresh mint fills the room and Mary Margaret stops for a moment to let it wash over her. “I swear, I’ve never met any child who loved it as much as him.”

 

Mary Margaret is nodding in agreement, crossing the kitchen with a box of pasta, when a sudden dizziness overtakes her. The pasta hits the ground, her grip going slack, and she has to prop herself up against the fridge.

 

“Are you alright?” Ingrid asks, knife dropping to the cutting board once more as she crosses the kitchen. Mary Margaret’s vision swims for a moment, but she feels Ingrid’s hands land on her upper arms and holding her steady.

 

“Yeah,” Mary Margaret breathes, her tongue feeling heavy in her mouth. “Yeah, just a dizzy spell. I should lie down, I think.”

 

She blinks a few times and her vision evens out, her head stops spinning. After assuring Ingrid she could make it up to her room by herself, Mary Margaret climbs the stairs. She doesn’t bother removing her shoes before she falls onto the bed, her body suddenly too heavy for her to carry any further.

 

Later, she’ll curse herself for not knowing what was happening. The push in her head, like an intruder forcing their way into her space. It happens in such small increments, though, how could she have seen it coming? The tiredness a common symptom of stress, the dizziness a symptom of the tiredness. It happens so slowly, it’s easy to miss it until it’s too late for her to stop it.

 

And then, suddenly, it happens all at once and Mary Margaret is suffocating in her own skin. Her limbs no longer respond to her commands, her voice doesn’t come even as she opens her jaw and works up the ability to scream.

  
Somewhere in her head, there is a dark and bitter sound that rattles her bones. Someone is laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will go up Friday! This story is already completed and only needs to be posted, but reviews keep me motivated! <3


	3. Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, the final chapter! I hope you enjoy it!

“Killian, stop pouting,” Emma commands, tapping at the screen on her phone in an attempt to focus the camera. He continues to frown, holding his shirt up enough that the wound is visible. “You’re lucky I’m not making you go to the sheriff’s station where they would then send you to the hospital.”

 

“It’s a bloody scratch,” he groans. “What are they going to do that I can’t right here?”

 

“Do you not have health insurance or something?” She asks as the flash on her phone goes off. Killian narrows his eyes at her. “Seriously, why are you being such a baby?”

 

“You sure know how to wound a man’s pride, Swan,” he comments, gruffly. Rolling her eyes, Emma adjusts her phone and snaps another picture before stowing it in her back pocket. She can print them off and give them to David later, along with her statement. She imagines he has a lot on his hands at the moment with that asshole father of his.

 

“Do you have a first aid kit or something?” Emma asks, ignoring his griping. Killian waves his hand toward a small door towards the front of the ship and sits down on the bed pressed against one of the ship's walls. Emma wonders if they’re called walls on ships, but pushes the thought away for a later Google search.

 

She slides the door he’d indicated to the side and finds a small bathroom. Emma officially has so many questions about the logistics of living on a boat. Instead of asking, she searches through the small cabinet where she finds a box of large band-aids and antiseptic. She grabs a washcloth on the way back out of the room, sliding the door shut behind her.

 

When she looks back at him, Killian has his shirt unbuttoned and is struggling to remove it from his shoulders. He lifts his good hand across his chest to try and push it off of his shoulder and tugs at the wound. It’s still leaking blood, but not at an alarming rate.

 

“Are you incapable of asking for help?” Emma frowns crossing back over to him. She sits down next to him on the edge of the bed, setting the supplies next to her, and helps him remove the shirt. He’s just gonna have to throw it out anyway, there’s no saving it.

 

“If you wanted to undress me, darling, all you had to do was say so,” he comments. It’s more deflection than actual flirtation and Emma sighs. With gentle fingers, she peels the shirt the rest of the way off of the side that’s injured and tosses it to the floor.

 

“Listen, pal,” she frowns, picking up the washcloth and dousing it in the antiseptic. “I could have left you to bleed out on this damn boat. So, shut up and let me help you.”

 

“Ship,” he grumbles in correction but there’s a smile tugging at his lips now. Emm returns it before pressing the rag to his wound. He hisses at the pain and curses quietly, eyebrows furrowing at her. She chuckles and removes the cloth, ducking down to blow lightly on the skin, leveraging herself with a hand on his chest. She feels his breath catch, the heartbeat under her palm quickening. Emma pulls back as if his skin has burned her.

 

“Better?” She asks, busying herself with opening one of the bandages. The paper rips between her shaking fingers before she actually manages to get it open.

 

“Aye, love,” Killian responds quietly, voice rough, as she removes the paper from the adhesive and gently presses the bandage onto his skin. “You’re a miracle worker.”

 

Emma hums dubiously as she considers her handiwork. She doesn’t look up as she asks, “Can I ask you a question?”

 

“You’ve already got me prisoner,” he teases. “I suppose you might as well.”

 

Emma is careful as she removes her fingers from the edges of the band-aid, satisfied that the adhesive is holding onto his skin. She sits back on the bed and collects all the supplies, moving them to the small table next to her. She can feel Killian’s gaze on her, waiting for her question.

 

“Why are you really here?” She asks finally, meeting his gaze. “And don’t say the lasagna, Garfield.”

 

He frowns at the comparison, but sighs and shifts on the bed until his body is aimed towards her and he is facing her fully. Emma follows his example, waiting for whatever tale he’s about to tell.

 

“I have spent years travelling from town to town along the coast,” he begins, intense blue gaze locked on her own green eyes. “I’ve seen nearly every inhabited island in this world, just desperately trying to put distance between me and my heartbreak. Nowhere ever seemed like enough, somewhere to stick around. Until I met you.”

 

“Me?” Emma breathes, the surprise causing the air to rush from her lungs. Killian doesn’t even look away from her as he nods.

 

“Aye, love,” he says. “You made me want to stay.”

 

Emma swallows and turns away from him. She hears Killian let out a sigh next to her, turning away as well. It takes a moment, for it to set in, for the sincerity of the words to settle over her. Something warm stirs in her chest, moving outwards until the tips of her fingers tingle and her cheeks go warm. She turns back to him, intent on saying something, anything. Nothing feels like enough, she doesn’t know how to do this. She considers that she’s always been much better at doing.

 

Then, she’s kissing him.

 

His surprise is short lived as her hand lands on his jaw, angling him back towards her, and her lips linger over his. It’s not a full kiss, the barest brush of lips, but Killian pushes back and the warmth inside her becomes a fire. His beard scratches against her palm, her jaw, the top of her lip. She digs her fingers into his hair and his dance along her chin, his thumb pressing gently into the dent there and easing her mouth open for him.

 

Emma is fully aware of the situation they’re in, she’s kissing him as he sits shirtless on his bed, but Killian doesn’t try to ease her back onto the mattress. He doesn’t try to take more than she’s ready to give, his tongue sliding against hers and fingers twisting in locks of her hair.

 

So, Emma pushes him. Subtly, she eases him backwards until she’s hovering over him, lips seeking purchase along his jaw, the column of his throat, before returning to his mouth. He breathes her name into the silence, reverently, and Emma shivers against him.

 

There’s a sudden sharp tug in her stomach that makes her whole body seize up for a moment. She pulls away from Killian, gasping for breath through the sudden pain. He searches her eyes, confused at the sudden change.

 

“Something’s wrong,” she pants, pulling him with her as she sits back up. Killian is frowning at her, searching her for some unseen injury. Emma knows, though, she knows she’s not the one that’s hurting. Not really. Another wave of pain takes of her and she feels it, like a magnetic pull, something urging her in the direction of home.

 

“What is it, Emma?” Killian asks, hand running along her arm. “What’s wrong?”

 

“I don’t know,” she says, shaking her head and trying not to let the fear overwhelm her. She wraps her arm around her stomach as if it’ll help the pain. “I just know something isn’t right. I have to get home.”

 

She pushes herself off the bed, letting the pull drag her to the steps that lead above deck. When she reaches the top, the force of the wind nearly knocks her over. The dark storm clouds are directly above them now, washing the town in a sinister grey light as they block out the sun. The wind whips around them, tangling her hair in her face, and Emma fights against it to reach the dock, Killian on her heels with his bloodstained shirt half buttoned up his torso.

 

He’s shouting to her over the wind, asking questions Emma doesn’t have an answer to, and she ignores him. Her boots are heavy against the dock and the water splashes up onto them from underneath as the waves lap towards the shore. She focuses on the sound of her own footsteps, and Killian’s behind her, as she runs the whole way back to her aunt’s house.

 

When she throws the front door open with more force than necessary, Henry is already at the entryway. He’s waving David upstairs and Emma’s heart thuds against her ribcage. When he spots her, her son slams into her torso, wrapping his arms around her. Emma holds him tightly for a moment before pulling away and dropping to her haunches in front of him.

 

“What’s going on?” She asks.

 

“I don’t know,” he sobs, shaking his head. “I don’t know! There’s something wrong with Mary Margaret!”

 

“Is Aunt Ingrid here?” Henry shakes his head. Emma places her hands on his shoulders and looks him in the eye so he knows she’s serious. “Go to Aunt Helga’s, alright? You remember where that is? Stay there until I come to get you.”

 

He nods, tears brimming in his frightened eyes. Emma tugs him to her once more before shoving him towards the door. Killian is still lingering and Emma can hear David’s heavy footfalls against the wooden stairs. She shoots Killian one more glance before following the sheriff up the stairs. When she rounds the corner into Mary Margaret’s room, she stops short and Killian nearly knocks into her.

 

“Jesus Christ,” Emma bites. Mary Margaret is writhing in her bed, chest heaving and tears falling from her eyes. David stands stunned in the middle of the room, meeting Emma’s eyes searchingly.

 

“What’s going on?” He asks. Emma shakes her head at him, not having a sufficient enough answer. She eases into the room, towards Mary Margaret, holding out a hand to stall Killian in the doorway. Mary Margaret lifts, suddenly, almost fully off the bed. A shimmering substance begins to come from her chest and Emma gapes as it takes a form.

 

“Whale,” David breathes at the same time Emma lets out a curse.

 

“Well, well, look who’s come to save the day,” Victor - or whatever the fuck he’s become - laughs. The sound is off, not quite the right pitch. It’s a little high, a little jittery. Something out of a nightmare. “Can’t say I’m surprised to see you here, sheriff.”

 

David has one hand on his gun as Victor circles him. Emma uses his distraction to ease her way towards Mary Margaret. She makes it halfway across the room before Victor turns and spots her. He holds his hand up, wagging a finger and tutting at her. Emma stalls, glaring at him.

 

“No, Ms. Swan,” he grins, the image of him shifting and making it look wrong on his face. “I did warn you, did I not? Don’t worry, though, I’ll get to you. First things first.”

 

He lunges at David before either of them can react, his hand plunging forward into his chest. Emma gasps, taking a useless step towards them as David shouts in pain, hunching forward around Victor’s arm. Emma watches in horror as David’s face contorts in pain before a bright light extends outwards from his chest. Victor’s spirit explodes into light and David falls to the floor gasping.

 

Emma stares at him for a moment before running to her sister’s side. Mary Margaret pants, sweat sticking her hair to her forehead, and grasps at Emma’s hand. She glances back at David. Killian is now leaning over him, but Emma can see he’s not moving.

 

“Killian?” She calls out warily. He looks back at her.

 

“He’s breathing,” he tells them. “But he isn’t responding.”

 

Killian falls backwards, landing on the wooden floor. Emma can see David more clearly now, sprawled across the floor. His chest heaves up and down heavily and Mary Margaret sits up, easing herself out of the bed. Emma tries to pull her back but she’s already moving towards the man.

 

“Oh no,” she cries. “Oh, David, no. Please wake up.”

 

Emma watches as Mary Margaret shakes him lightly, David not responding. Tears fall down her sister’s face and Emma feels helpless. Killian pushes himself to his feet, stumbling over to where Emma is still kneeling next to the bed.

 

“What the hell just happened?” He asks quietly.

 

“I’m wondering the same thing,” Ingrid says from the doorway. Emma looks up at her in shame, chewing on her lip. Mary Margaret lays her head down on David’s chest and continues to cry.

 

-/-

 

It takes some convincing, but eventually Emma gets Mary Margaret off of David. Killian and Emma move him to the bed, dropping him gently on Mary Margaret’s unmade sheets as she watches in concern. Once they move away, she rushes again to his side. Her fingers glide over the stubble on his cheeks, up into his hair.

 

“What’s wrong with him?” She asks, looking to Ingrid as she joins her at the other side of the bed. Ingrid presses her palm to David’s forehead gently. She closes her eyes for a moment and Mary Margaret recognizes the move from when she was younger, sensing the energy within him.

 

“He’s not dead, clearly,” Ingrid sighs finally, pulling her hand away. “He’s in a coma. Which, admittedly, is not much better.”

 

“A coma?” Mary Margaret asks, her voice breaking on the word. Ingrid nods at her, but her eyes go a little steely and Mary Margaret knows what’s coming next. Trying to keep this from her was a mistake, she knows that now. This whole thing has been one giant mess and it’s all Mary Margaret’s fault. She lowers herself until her head is pressed against David’s chest again, tries to fight the guilt attempting to swallow her whole.

 

“Would one of you like to tell me what’s going on?” Ingrid asks, turning to look between Emma and Mary Margaret, hands crossed over her chest. “What have you two been doing?”

 

Mary Margaret hears Emma sigh behind her. Her sister’s hand falls to her head, fingers running through the short hair there. Mary Margaret grips David’s shirt a little tighter.

 

“Let’s give Mary Margaret some time,” Emma suggest softly. “I’ll explain everything downstairs.”

 

A wave of gratefulness for her sister washes over Mary Margaret, even as the guilt threatens to claw up her throat. She’s having trouble breathing as she clings to David. His steady heartbeats give her a sense of calm. Still, her chest feels too heavy, her body is reacting to her brain too slowly.

 

She turns her head, burying her face in David’s chest and ignores the pounding in her skull.

 

-/-

 

“So, the short story is,” Emma starts, pacing around the living room. “I killed Whale.”

 

Ingrid is sitting stiffly on the couch, her eyes tracking Emma’s movement. Killian is leaning against the archway that leads into the entrance hall. She’d considered sending him home, but she didn’t really think it’d go over so well. Neither of them really react to the news and Emma supposes that’s fair.

 

“What happened?” Ingrid asks gently.

 

“He attacked Mary Margaret,” she explains, rolling her shoulders and shaking out her hands. Knowing it was one thing. Actually saying it, putting it out there for people besides her and Mary Margaret, that feels like something else entirely. “I pushed him off of her, his head hit the pavement, and then he was just... dead.”

 

“So, it was self-defense,” Killian comments from the doorway. Emma has avoided looking at him since they made it downstairs, but now feels her eyes pulled to his. “The man was trying to hurt your sister.”

 

“It’s not that simple,” Emma admits quietly. Killian frowns, but it’s Ingrid that speaks up this time.

 

“What did you do?” She asks. Emma turns to her, twisting her fingers together and feeling like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. This is so much bigger than a few pilfered thin mints.

 

“When Graham died,” Emma explains slowly, aware of Killian’s eyes on her back. She doesn’t know how to ease him into this part, so she’s just not going to. “I asked you to do a spell to bring him back.”

 

“Emma,” Ingrid gasps. “You didn’t.”

 

“I just wanted to fix it,” Emma rushes on, her hands flying out to her sides, pleading for Ingrid to understand. “With Graham it mattered that he came back as himself. But, with Victor, I didn’t care what he came back as, as long he had a heartbeat. But, I don’t know, maybe it was a soul he lacked. The next thing I knew he was attacking Mary Margaret again, even worse this time. So, I hit him.”

 

She feels a pressure on her back and turns to find Killian behind her, hand resting lightly on her lower back. She offers him a shaky smile in gratitude at the support. Ingrid stands from the couch, shaking her head.

 

“I told you, Emma, when you asked me to do this for Graham,” she admonishes. “There are some things nature simply won’t abide by.”

 

“I know,” Emma nods quietly. “But it’s over now.”

 

Ingrid steps forward, placing her hand lightly on Emma’s cheek. Tears threaten to spill from her eyes, but Emma holds the back as Ingrid offers her a tense smile.

 

“I’m afraid it’s far from over.”

 

With that Ingrid heads from the room, crossing the entryway into the kitchen. Emma brings a hand to her face, rubbing at the moisture in her eyes before it can fall over her cheeks. Killian’s hand on her back becomes a little steadier and he rubs in circles.

 

“Swan, when the sheriff wakes up, I’m sure he’ll understand,” he offers quietly. Emma appreciates the optimism, but she’s having a hard time believing it. Right now, David is lying in a coma, her sister is heartbroken and just got _possessed_ , and Emma, well, Emma has to make him leave.

 

“How can you be so calm right now?” She demands, turning to him. His hand is still on her back and it causes his arm to curl around her, nearly embracing her if she’d allow herself the step forward. She wants to, wants to just stumble forward and let him hold her until it all goes away, but knows she can’t. “After what you just saw, what I did, how can you still want to be here?”

 

“I admit, it’s all a bit much to take,” Killian nods, brow furrowing at her. “But you needn’t push me away, love, I want to help however I can.”

 

“Help?” Emma asks, a bitter laugh falling from her lips. “What are you gonna do against Casper the Unfriendly Asshole?”

 

“You don’t think this is over?” He asks, ignoring the bite in her question. Emma thinks she might have more effect if she could pull herself away from him, wasn’t leaning into the arm wrapped around her.

 

“I don’t know what I think,” she huffs. “What I _know_ , is that men don’t tend to last long around this family. So, if you were looking for a reason to sail away to the next island or whatever, this is probably it.”

 

Killian frowns at her, pulling his arm from around her, and Emma resists the flinch that nearly overcomes her as he does. This is the goal, isn’t it? She can take it if he leaves, can take that minor heartbreak. At least he’ll live to walk away from her. She stiffens in surprise when his hand comes up to brush the hair away from her face.

 

“I wasn’t looking for a reason,” he says. Emma doesn’t realize the tears have come back until he brushing them from her cheeks with his knuckles.

 

“You should run, Killian,” she breathes. “While you still can.”

 

“If you really want me to go, I will,” he nods. “But unless you ask me to do so, I’m going to stay here and do what I can to help you.”

 

He goes silent, waits for her command. She’s running out of resolve, though, and the thought of telling him to go makes her chest ache. Instead, she steps past him into the entryway. Mary Margaret comes down the stairs at that moment, stepping onto the floorboards with a surprising pep to her step. Emma frowns at her.

 

“What the hell are you so cheerful about?” She asks, more confusion than bite in the words. Mary Margaret shrugs, a smirk pulling at her lips that makes Emma’s blood run cold.

 

“I told you I’d get you back,” she says, smile tugging her lips back. Graham had been very into wolves and had forced Emma to watch more than one nature documentary with them. The look her sister is giving her right now is not unlike an animal baring it’s fangs and expressing dominance over a prey. “Emma Swan.”

 

She lunges, her hands gripping Emma’s biceps tightly. Her thumbs press into the muscle, right where it meets the bone, and Emma lets out a shout of pain. With her arms pinned to her sides, fighting back is hard and she’s pretty sure Mary Margaret’s fingers are pressing into a pressure point. She stumbles backwards, Mary Margaret following with her, grip never faltering. Emma hits the handrailing of the staircase, the wood pressing painfully into her spine.

 

Like something out of a movie, a vase comes down on Mary Margaret’s head. Soil and flower petals fall to the floor along with the broken pieces of the vase. Mary Margaret’s grip gives out and she falls to the floor. Killian stares at Emma with wide eyes.

 

“Am I correct in assuming that that was not, in fact, your sister I just knocked out?” He asks. Emma nods, unable to form words as she rubs at the red spots on her arms. They’ll turn to bruises in minutes. “Oh, good. Thought that might leave a bad impression otherwise.”

 

Ingrid rushes in, the sound of the screen door slapping against the wooden doorframe telling Emma she’d been outside. She looks down at Mary Margaret slumped in front of the stairs and Emma rubbing her arms.

 

“I told you this wasn’t over.”

 

Emma frowns at her aunt, this is hardly the time for smugness she thinks. Except Ingrid doesn’t stop to gloat, turning and heading back into the kitchen. She comes back dragging one of the kitchen chairs with her.

 

“Tie her to this,” she says, leaving them with the chair. Emma opens her mouth to protest tying her sister to a chair, but Ingrid is already moving on. “We’ll need a coven. Nine to twelve women.” She stops abruptly, seeming to consider this. “Emma, call Ruby. She’ll know who to round up.”

 

Emma does as she’s told, calling Ruby while Killian moves Mary Margaret to the chair. He ties her with the ropes Ingrid brings him and Emma half thinks he just wants to show off the different kinds of knots he can tie. She remembers David, prone and defenseless upstairs, and dread fills her as she considers Victor having ample opportunity to attack the man. She rushes upstairs to check, but his chest still moves up and down steadily.

 

Ingrid begins to mix something awful smelling in a large pot on the stove. It’s one more thing that brings on a wave of memories for her, Ingrid and Helga standing over that pot working on whatever it was they did back then. Helga joins them not long after Ingrid begins her work, assuring Emma that Henry had fallen asleep not long after showing up at her house. Emma’s heart constricts a little at the thought of the fear from the day tiring him out so much. She hopes she’ll be able to protect him from all of this.

 

Ruby shows up first, ecstatic at the prospect of helping them with a spell. She carts the small librarian Belle along with her, the woman looking amazed and shy all at once, and one of the sheriff’s deputies, Mulan, whom Emma has had more than one pleasant conversation with. Elsa shows up, as well, having arrived in town hours ago for a visit.

 

“You’re timing is unbelievable,” Emma comments and Elsa grips her hands.

 

“You know how it is when one of us is in trouble,” she shrugs, grinning despite the circumstances. Emma pulls her into a fierce hug before sending her into the kitchen to help Helga and Ingrid.

 

More women show up, some more of a surprise than others. Emma falters as Regina, the principal at the school and Mary Margaret’s boss, steps through the front door. The woman had never been anything but scornful in their childhood and Emma had never heard any different since she’d gotten back. At Emma’s raised eyebrow, Regina shrugs and explains “I’ve always wanted to see inside this house.”

 

Killian lingers in the living room where they’ve moved Mary Margaret. He mostly keeps his eye on her and tries not to be in the way. Emma moves around the living room, placing candles and lighting them with a flick of her wrist. The magic use sends a warm wave through her and Emma feels optimistic about this for a moment. Mary Margaret’s eyes follow her around the room and Emma refuses to meet them. She hovers near Killian once she’s finished lighting the candles.

 

“You don’t need to be here for this, you know?” She tells him. “We’ve got enough help and I’m not sure there’s going to be anything for you to do.”

 

Killian slides his hand into hers, squeezing her fingers gently. She thinks she hears Mary Margaret gagging from behind her and ignores the sound.

 

“Do you want me to leave, Emma?” He asks. Emma blinks at him and shakes her head. “Then, here I shall stay.”

 

Emma takes a deep breath, squeezing his fingers a bit tighter and nodding at him. She reminds him to just stay back. Their spells can be finicky and, in truth, the craft doesn’t particularly like men. The Swan women’s craft likes them even less. Emma plans to do whatever it takes to save her sister, but she doesn’t want to lose anyone else in the process.

 

Ingrid leaves Ruby stirring the big pot while Helga continues to add herbs to it. She takes a shaker of salt, the special one derived from the sea water they live next to, and pours a near perfect circle in the living room.

 

“Really?” Belle asks, timidly, peeking into the room. “That actually works with spirits?”

 

“Sometimes,” Ingrid shrugs, placing the cap back over the jar. “Occasionally those ridiculous stories get things right.”

 

Emma pours water over the fireplace and a powerful wind knocks the power out, the only light left in the house are the candles she had placed. She shoots a concerned glance at Ingrid.

 

“If we do this properly,” Ingrid assures her, taking her hand gently. “The storm will pass.”

 

Helga and Ingrid guide the women, all twelve of them which still has Emma reeling at the response, into the living room. They stand around the circle, hands clasped in solidarity, while Mary Margaret lies in the middle. She’s moving about, looking to be in pain, and Emma has to avert her eyes. Ingrid leads the incantation. Helga, Emma, and Elsa join in and prompt the rest of the women to do so as well.

 

Emma casts a glance towards Ruby next to her, expecting her to be loving the experience, but she’s only murmuring the words as she stares fearfully at Mary Margaret. Emma squeezes her hand and offers her a reassuring smile. She doesn’t quite feel it, but it seems to lift Ruby’s spirit some as she chants a little louder. Mary Margaret’s movements become more jerky, less like twitching and more like writhing in pain. Emma’s stomach rolls at the sight.

 

Ingrid grows louder, encouraging the rest of the group to do so as well. Mary Margaret begins to scream and Emma nearly falls over at the sound, pain shooting through her chest for her sister.

 

“Stop,” she commands tearing her hands from Ruby and Elsa. “Stop, Jesus, just stop!”

 

They all stop abruptly as Emma drops to the floor, calling for Mary Margaret. Her sister seems to pick herself up, dragging her body towards where Emma sits on the floor, reaching out for her. She stops just in front of the line of salt.

 

“Bitch,” she hisses, her lips pulling back in a sneer. Emma’s eyes go wide and she moves back just as Mary Margaret throws her body at her. She collides with the invisible wall, the salt offering a nice protection, and propels backwards.

 

“Mary Margaret,” Emma gasps, tears springing to her eyes. Her sister lays on her back gasping for breath. When her eyes connect with Emma’s there are tears falling from them and Emma knows it’s her sister, if only for the moment.

 

“Emma,” she pleads. “You have to let me go. If you let me go this can stop.”

 

“No,” Emma insists, shaking her head and scooting forwards back to the line of salt. “Come on, Mary Margaret, you’re stronger than this, okay? You’re so much stronger than any of us. So, you have to fight it, alright?”

 

“I can’t,” Mary Margaret sobs, the tears streaming from her eyes now, leaking down across her temples and into her hairline. Emma wants to reach out for her, knows it’s better that she doesn’t. “I’m not as strong as you, Emma, you’re the strong one. You have to be strong enough to let me go.”

 

“Please,” Emma begs. “Please. Don’t give up. My walls don’t make me strong, they never have. But you? You’ve always been so open and willing to let yourself connect. That’s what makes you strong and I’ve always envied that. So, you can’t give up because I’m gonna need you to help me be open, too.”

 

Mary Margaret rolls over, cradling her head against her hand and facing Emma fully now. She pulls her legs towards her chest and cries, “Please, please just let him take me.”

 

Someone is crying softly at the scene and Emma thinks it may be Aurora to her right. Mary Margaret’s eyes drift shut and Emma knows whatever control she has is waning. She slaps her hand against the wood floor and when Mary Margaret’s eyes open again, Emma doesn’t see her sister in them.

 

“No,” she bites out, pushing herself up from the floor. “No, I am not giving up.”

 

She runs to the kitchen, ignoring the confused and worried looks being sent her way. There’s a block of kitchen knives sitting next to the sink and she pulls out a steak knife. She runs back to the living room, skidding back onto the floor next to Mary Margaret.

 

“Come on, you sick son of a bitch,” she goads. Mary Margaret’s eyes flash at the taunt and Emma knows she has Victor’s attention. She swipes her free hand across the salt, brushing it out of the way and breaking the circle. “You wanna make me pay? Come on!”

 

Mary Margaret scurries towards her and Emma knew Victor wouldn’t reject the bait. Emma grabs her around the shoulders before she can get any leverage and holds her in place. She uses the knife to reopen the old scar on her palm, locating the matching one on Mary Margaret’s.

 

“My blood,” she bites out against the fresh pain before swiping the knife along Mary Margaret’s palm. “Your blood.” Mary Margaret struggles against her and Emma releases her long enough to press their palms together. “Our blood!”

 

It’s hard for Emma to explain what exactly happens in the next few moments. A blinding light originates from their hands, spreading outwards, much like the one that protected David from Victor’s spirit. Somewhere behind her, Emma can hear the women repeating the enchantment again, their hands clasped in a circle over top of her and Mary Margaret.

 

And then, it’s over.

 

All the women, and Killian, hit the floor with the force of it. Mary Margaret’s green eyes shine bright again as she pulls herself out of the circle and into Emma’s arms. Emma clutches her tightly, unwilling to let her go, until Ingrid makes a comment about watching out. They back out of the way as a thin cloud of black dust falls, settles on the hardwood.

 

“I wonder if that would work on my mother,” Regina comments, earning a smirk from her own sister standing next to her. Mary Margaret leans against Emma, sweat slicking her hair to her forehead and breathing heavy. But she’s herself, so there’s that.

 

Ingrid and Helga procure brooms and swiffers and even a vacuum from where, Emma isn’t sure. The women sweep the remaining ashes of Victor Whale’s spirit out into the back garden and Emma and Mary Margaret follow them, hauling the large pot off of the stove. Emma points them towards the regrown apple tree and they get the dust in a pile near the roots. Emma and Mary Margaret dump the pot onto the pile and the ground sinks, the apples on the tree falling to the grass and turning a sickly black.

 

-/-

 

Mary Margaret didn’t ever think she’d have to readjust to being the only person in control of her body, but she does. It takes a few minutes, leaning heavily against her sister as the other women trail back inside. She’s sure Helga and Ingrid will treat them all to tea or something, but she’s not interested in the company at the moment. She’ll thank them all personally later. Probably with gift baskets.

 

Instead she wraps her arms around Emma who squeezes her back just as tightly.

 

“Thanks,” Mary Margaret breathes. “For not giving up.”

 

“Did you think for even a moment that I would?” Emma asks.

 

“Not for one second,” Mary Margaret assures her, arms squeezing a little tighter. Suddenly, the thought of kind eyes and a badge assaults her and she gasps. “Oh, God, David!”

 

She releases her sister and runs back to the house. Her hand is sticky with blood and she’s sure her shirt has been ruined with Emma’s, but she can’t stop to worry about it. She hears her sister’s footsteps pound against the ground as she follows her. She hears the distant shout of “Swan” from Killian in the living room. She doesn’t stop until she reaches her bedroom.

 

David still lies prone on her sheets. His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm, but Mary Margaret’s chest clenches just seeing him there, knowing she’s put him in this place. She enters the room slowly, hears Emma and Killian pull up short at the doorway behind her.

 

“Oh, David, no,” she says quietly as she reaches his side. She’s careful to use her uninjured hand when she strokes it down his face. She sits on the side of the bed and leans towards him, continuing in a shaking whisper, “Please, wake up.”

 

It’s stupid, she thinks, even as she’s doing it, but she leans forward towards him. Mary Margaret presses her lips against his softly, just a gentle pressure as her eyes drift shut. She feels a sudden wind, wonders if a window was left open. The storm had still been raging outside even after they’d dealt with Victor. She sighs and presses her forehead against David’s.

 

“Come back to me,” she murmurs. Before she can register it, a hand is settling on her face and Mary Margaret thinks Emma’s come to pull her away. She doesn’t want to think about what a pathetic scene she may make. The hand is too large, though, rough callouses gliding against the skin of her cheek.

 

She gasps, her eyes opening wide to find David’s fluttering open as well. She doesn’t bother to think about it as she presses her lips to his again, laughing delightedly against him when he reciprocates this time. He sits up, lifting her with him as he continues to pepper light kisses against her lips.

 

“Well, would you look at that,” she hears Ingrid intone near the doorway. Mary Margaret breaks away from David to press her forehead against his once again, unable to contain her smile. She can feel his matching one as he steals one more kiss.

 

“Wanna explain to me what the hell just happened?” Emma asks. Mary Margaret is having trouble working up the annoyance at them talking about her and David as if they aren’t there.

 

“Don’t you know, Emma, dear?” Ingrid asks, a light teasing not to her tone. “True love can break any curse.”

 

Mary Margaret glances over at the doorway just in time to see Ingrid turn and leave. Emma is frowning at them, though, and even from a distance Mary Margaret can see the wheels turning in her head.

 

“Hey, David,” she calls. “What’s your favorite kind of weather?”

 

David pulls far enough away from Mary Margaret to frown at the question. His hands linger, though, drifting from her face to her shoulders to her arms and back up. Mary Margaret thinks he may be trying to convince himself she’s real. She can relate.

 

“Snow,” he answers easily, despite his confusion. “Why?”

 

“No reason,” Emma responds on a near delirious laugh before she turns and buries her face in Killian’s collarbone. His brow is furrowed in confusion as well, but it turns to amusement as he brings his hand up to tangle in Emma’s hair.

 

Mary Margaret turns away from the scene to pull David back to her, leaving a longer kiss against his lips now. Emma may be surprised, but Mary Margaret isn’t. She’d known it all along.

 

-/-

 

Mary Margaret and David get married in the winter. There’s fresh snow covering Ingrid’s backyard and everyone has to wear coats over their expensive dresses and nice suits. It’s all a bit kitschy for Emma’s taste, but she’ll admit that it’s perfect for the couple. Mary Margaret has on more lace than Emma thinks exists in the whole town and a light pink peacoat over it.

 

She looks like the fairytale princess Emma’s always secretly believed she is. Henry even gets to rent his own little tux for the occasion, the colors a compliment of David’s tux. Emma absolutely does not cry.

 

Killian brushes his cold knuckles over her cheeks, collecting the moisture with a soft smile. She rolls her eyes at him, shoving him lightly. There’d been no wedding party, but Emma was the unofficial maid of honor and had spent months helping with the prep. It was absolutely exhausting and so much more time consuming than her own wedding to Graham which, admittedly, had been a little thing at City Hall.

 

“Can I ask you something?” Emma asks, catching Ingrid alone in the kitchen once the party has moved indoors. Ingrid hums in response. “Do you really think Mary Margaret and David’s true love broke the Swan family curse?”

 

“Oh no,” Ingrid answers, waving her hand at the notion. Emma frowns, eyes trailing to where she can see David and Killian chatting through the archways. “Their love broke whatever Victor had done to David.”

 

“Oh,” Emma responds eloquently, swallowing hard. Ingrid turns from where she’d been mixing the alcoholic punch and wraps her arm over Emma’s shoulder.

 

“Your and Mary Margaret’s love on the other hand,” she offers leadingly. Emma turns her head to search her aunt’s face, brow pinching in question.

 

“You think it’s over, then?” She asks, unsure of whether she’s willing to hope. “Like, forever?”

 

“Emma,” Ingrid sighs, placing her hands on her shoulders and tugging her round to face her gently. “I think that, curse or no curse, you should love him while he’s here.”

 

Emma stares at her wide eyed for a moment. Ingrid gives her a wink, releasing her grip on her shoulders. She spoons herself a cup full of the punch and heads out of the kitchen. Emma follows her path, eyes stalling on Killian again. He notices her gaze and excuses himself from David. Emma slips out the back door into the yard.

 

“You know, I haven’t actually seen snow in a while,” Killian comments when he joins her. He takes a seat next to her in one of the folding chairs from the ceremony. “Never stayed in one place long enough, really. I usually went wherever it was still summer.”

 

“Ah, then how are you enjoying winter in Storybrooke, Captain?” Emma asks. She can feel his gaze on the side of her face, holds her own steadfastly on the decorated archway under which Mary Margaret and David had just said their vows.

 

“I’m already looking forward to the next,” he answers softly. Emma’s lips twitch in a smile and she lets herself meet his gaze.

 

“Planning on sticking around our little town that long?” She inquires. Killian hums as if contemplating the question.

 

“That depends, were you planning on going anywhere else, Swan?” He asks. Emma shakes her head in the negative and Killian’s answering smile is nearly blinding. “Then, yes, I think I’ll stick around for a while.”

 

Emma grins in response, leaning forward to kiss him. Killian’s hand comes up to tangle in her hair and she presses hers against his chest. Through the layers of his suit, she can feel his heart thudding against her palm. It steadies her.

 

“Oh,” she hears behind her, on a slightly embarrassed gasp. “I think we found them.”

 

Emma breaks away, grinning bashfully at Mary Margaret where she stands in the doorway. Henry pushes past her, running across the layer of snow to sit in the chair next to Emma. Killian gives her a wink before standing up.

 

“I’ll give you all a moment,” he offers, rounding the chairs to go back inside. He gives Mary Margaret a slight bow as he passes by her. “Mrs. Nolan-Swan.”

 

“Mr. Jones,” Mary Margaret responds with an incline of her head, a smile dancing on her lips. Emma reaches over and tugs Henry into her lap. He groans and squirms for a moment before conceding to his fate as Mary Margaret sits in his vacated spot.

 

“What a year,” Mary Margaret comments, her huff of breath coming out in a white puff of fog. Emma nods as Henry holds out his hand, trying to catch the light flecks of snow falling from the sky in his palm. Emma watches as they hit his warm skin and melt away immediately. After a moment of no success, Henry sticks his tongue out to catch the snow on instead.

 

Chuckling, Emma squeezes her arm around him and reaches out to grab Mary Margaret’s hand with her free one. Mary Margaret drops her head against her shoulder, small tiara pricking the skin of Emma’s neck. She tilts her head away from the offending object.

 

She thinks of the past few months, after everything they’d been through. It’s not perfect. There’s no hiding their powers from the town now, though they aren’t scorned by them anymore. Business at the herbal shop has picked up and Ingrid and Helga had to hire more women to work it. Emma finally became a full time deputy, after David cleared them of any wrongdoing in the death of Dr. Victor Whale.

 

There are still nights where Emma startles awake to the sound of crickets chirping outside her window and clings a little tighter to Killian. Most of the time, he wakes with her, woken by the shaking of her fingers or the sudden press of her body tightly against his. He’ll lift her shaking palm and dust kisses over her knuckles before placing it over the rhythmic beat of his heart. Some nights, she falls back to sleep, calmed by the steady thumping beneath her hand. Others, he stays up with her until the sun rises and the crickets can’t be heard anymore.

 

She knows Mary Margaret has nightmares, still. Emma can read it in the dark circles under her eyes, the lines of concern in David’s face when he comes into working after staying up soothing her back to sleep. There may be no real healing from all they’ve seen, all they’ve done. It doesn’t stop Emma from wanting to try, though.

 

She lifts her hand from around Henry and ruffles his hair as a snowflake lands on his nose. They’ll all get sick if they sit out in the frigid air for too long, but Emma isn’t ready to move just yet. She drops her head on top of Mary Margaret’s.

  
“Yeah,” Emma sighs in response to her sister’s comment. A snowflake lands on her own nose, making her go cross eyed for a moment before it melts away. “But I’m looking forward to the next one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [insert close-eyed cringe emoji] I hope this had a nice payoff? I really, really just adored writing this fic and I honestly hope you lovely readers enjoyed it! <3


End file.
